METAL GEAR SOLID: SNAKE EATER
by Psifonian
Summary: At the height of the Cold War, a CIA operative is sent to uncover the secret behind Metal Gear, a top-secret superweapon with nuclear capability. This is the story of "Naked Snake," and how he became one of the most legendary soldiers in military history. A novelization of the game.
1. Over Pakistani Airspace

**METAL GEAR SOLID:**

**SNAKE EATER**

* * *

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**

This book couldn't have been written without the brilliant work

and creative genius of Hideo Kojima and the rest of the

Konami team.

* * *

After the end of World War II,

the world was split into two - **East and West**.

This marked the beginning of the era called the Cold War.

* * *

_During the Cold War, we lived in coded times_

_when it wasn't easy and there were_

_shades of grey and ambiguity._

- John le Carre

. . .

_I am become death._

- The Bhagavad Gita

* * *

**Pakistani Airspace**

**August 24, 1964**

**0530 Hours**

The first light of dawn brought with it the promise of a storm and a shape that seemed to herald it.

It hurtled through cloud and air like an angel of vengeance, perhaps like the one prophesied to bring divine retribution upon whole civilizations by the peoples who lived far below.

This was no angel, though-not one of God, anyway. If anything, there was something slightly demonic about its appearance.

The craft bore two tubelike steel "horns," each one thirty feet long, angling from its nose. Its fuselage was painted a gunmetal gray, which blended with the cloud cover and the rapidly lightening sky almost flawlessly. Its multiple wing propellers thrummed as they cut through condensation. Other than a few blinking lights along the wings and the dull hum, the thing was a ghost.

It was a Lockheed Combat Talon, a converted C-130 that had been modified for the task at hand. It was a prototype of sorts, with only a half-dozen or so in existence. Along with the horns, the plane also had cables strung from the nose to the wingtips, with a larger one running directly beneath the fuselage itself. The crew called this main line a "sky anchor." But it was designed for something other than ballast.

The Talon was designed to carry an entire platoon of combat troops, but on this early August morning, it was manned by the barest of skeleton crews: a pilot and two crew chiefs. They were not alone, however. The pilot sat alone at the control panel, diligently monitoring the plane's vitals and keeping the craft on its proper course. Despite the monotony of staring at the night sky for the last fourteen hours, he was wide awake. It wasn't easy to get bored when you were flying through enemy airspace.

Behind him, in a small niche between the cockpit and the cargo hold, there were three of the plane's four passengers. Two of them sat at their own consoles, surrounded by blinking lights and electronics units. One of them was one of the crew chiefs, who monitored the status of the plane's equipment. The other was a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a bombardier's jacket two sizes too big for her slight frame. With paper-pale skin and cheekbones like icebergs, she looked almost frail-until you looked in her eyes. They were fine, intelligent, with a spark of hungry curiosity. These eyes were fixed ahead, never betraying any sort of anxiety.

Behind these two, leaning against the bulkhead with arms folded, was an older man, wearing the insignia of a major. He was a lean man, fifty years old, tall but not burly. His stomach remained washboard flat. He moved with a spare grace, as if every exertion counted for something important. His chin was narrow, his eyes slate gray under heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. A bristling mustache rode his upper lip, and steel-gray hair lay neatly on his scalp. A scar furrowed down one side of his face. It was an old war wound, one he sported as proudly as he would a medal. Like everyone else in the cockpit-which he thought of as "Mission Control"-he wore an electronic headset.

"Approaching Soviet airspace," the pilot reported. "Commencing internal depressurization."

There was a hiss of air, startling loud in the confines of the cockpit.

"Equipment check," the pilot went on. "Arm main parachute."

The major unfolded his arms and stepped forward. He tapped his headset. "All right," he said, his voice clipped with a crisp British lilt. "Are you ready to go?"

"Drop zone still showing a high precious mass," the pilot replied. "CAVOK."

That last word was an acronym, meaning that they had good cloud cover. The major nodded. That was good news for the plane's cargo.

In the spacious cargo bay, the low hiss was drowned by the rumble of the plane's engines. The crew chief stationed there had already hooked up his oxygen mask. He glanced over at the plane's cargo: a single man, sitting on the bench on the far side. Unlike the others, he didn't have a headset. Instead, he'd been equipped with an experimental device called a codec, which was a tiny mechanism inserted in the man's inner ear, designed to stimulate the bones there so that there would be little feedback during the mission. He was hunched over, in olive-colored fatigues and a bulky pack on his back. He couldn't even see the man's head, with the raft of cigar smoke drifting in front of his face.

"Put out that cigar," the crew chief barked.

The figure hunched there didn't seem to hear-or if he did, didn't seem to care. The crew chief walked over and fiddled with some instruments. "Connecting oxygen hose to interior connector," he reported through his own headset.

"Roger that," the pilot's voice replied.

The crew chief turned back to the figure. There he was, still puffing on that cigar without a care in the world. "Put on your mask," he said.

Still no response from the man. He just sat there, blowing smoke like a dragon.

_Does this pantywaist even know what he's doing?_ the crew chief thought, turning away from the man to continue his checklist.

The plane continued onward. It was now thirty thousand feet over the heart of Soviet territory-bad place for an American plane and its crew to be spotted. The dawn had caught up to the plane and the sun winked off its fuselage, though with the rather thick clouds swirling beneath and around them, it was highly doubtful that any enemy eyes on the ground would spot them. Same for any sort of radar activity.

"Approaching release point," the pilot said over the intercom. "Ten minutes to drop-off."

The major glanced at one of the monitors on the console. It showed a camera feed from inside the cargo hold. He saw the figure still hunkered there, the glow of a cigar in his mouth. He keyed his headset.

"Hey!" he barked irritably. "Are you deaf? He said put out your cigar and put on your mask."

The figure seemed to let out a sigh, with one final jet of smoke issuing from his nostrils. He tossed the still-smoldering cigar to the deck. The man seemed to glance in the direction of the camera, showing his face-which was streaked in black camouflage paint-and picked up the black oxygen mask hanging from his chest. He put the mask over his face and waited.

The hiss finally stopped as the pressure in the plane equalized.

"Depressurization complete," the pilot reported. "Checking oxygen supply. Six minutes to drop-off."

"Opening rear hatch," the crew chief in the cargo bay responded.

There was a whir of machinery, and one of the bulkheads suddenly shifted, and a gap appeared in the plane's wall. It grew wider slowly, letting in the first piercing rays of sun. The man in the fatigues looked towards it, his face completely blank behind the Army-regulation oxygen mask.

The crew chief looked at some of the readouts. "External temperature, minus fifty-four degrees Celsius. Two minutes to drop-off." He turned to the figure. "Stand up!"

The man rose to his feet. He was tall, over six feet in height and broad across the chest. The crew chief flinched a little as the man started toward him, and then he moved towards the ramp, which was still steadily cranking open like a crocodile's mouth.

The man stalked forward, doing his best to maintain his balance. The cold wind blew across him, cutting to the bone even through his thick jumpsuit. The shock of the cold numbed him; he knew it would be even worse in a few minutes.

"You'll be falling at a hundred and thirty miles per hour," the major's voice said calmly. "Try not to get frostbite from the wind chill."

I'll do my best, the man thought.

"One minute to drop-off," the pilot's voice reported.

His headset crackled and hissed, then he heard the major's voice again. "This is one for the history books. The world's first HALO jump."

_Not that anyone will know about it, _the man thought sourly. He took another step forward, grinding the cigar stub to ash under his bootheel. He could hear the countdown, and as the numbers ticked lower and lower, he steeled himself, ignoring the cold and staring at the lights over the open ramp entrance. One of them glowed red; the other was dead. Once that one went green, it was go time.

"Ten seconds to drop-off," the pilot reported. "Stand by."

The woman at the control panel exchanged a glance with the major. For the first time, there was a tinge of worry in her eyes. He did his best not to betray the same emotion in his own.

_"Five."_

The man braced his back, the wind whipping at his arms and legs.

_"Four."_

The man took a deep, slow breath.

_"Three."_

The man set his steel-like jaw.

_"Two."_

The man relaxed his fists.

_"One!"_

The red jump-light next to the young man's head suddenly flared a bright green. Go.

"Spread your wings and fly!" the major said over the codec. "God be with you!"

The man tipped forward, his arms and legs splayed. His boots left the cold deck of the ramp as he propelled himself into the first light of dawn thirty thousand feet in the sky, and he was gone.


	2. Sixteen Hours Before

**SIXTEEN HOURS BEFORE**

Striding down the corridor of the East Wing of the Pentagon, the young man with the green beret fell into his typical routine of spotting landmarks, memorizing the route so he could trace his path back under any circumstances.

Normally he would have noted a broken tree, a rock outcropping, or a gully. It had served him well when he was tromping through the fever-infested swamps of Southeast Asia, or slipping into enemy territory in the mountains of Korea. Now, though, instead of wearing a camouflage outfit or a survival suit bristling with small weapons and resources, the young man sported his full military dress uniform, neatly pressed and smelling of laundry detergent.

Despite the amenities of civilization, he felt less comfortable this way.

The halls of the Pentagon provided as difficult a challenge as any highland wilderness, though, because each corridor in the labyrinthine wilderness was symmetric and unmemorable. The immense building's geometric shape made it easy to become disoriented and lost. One could emerge from a familiar-looking doorway out to a parking lot . . . only to find oneself on the wrong side of the titanic fortress.

Not that the young man found it an insurmountable obstacle. He looked at the succession of office doors, most of them closed, the interior lights shut off. On Sunday the Pentagon offices closed down, the civil servants and military personnel still in the midst of their weekend activities. Normal civilians worked their regular forty-hour weeks, filling out the appropriate forms, passing them from office to office for the appropriate stamps, signatures, where they were filed in triplicate.

But for a career soldier like this particular man, the civilian timeclock meant nothing. He did not punch in or punch out when he went to work. His services were available on demand, all day long, all year long, whenever duty might call. He took his vacation and his relaxation time when circumstances permitted. He would have had it no other way.

The fact he'd been called here on a Sunday for a high-level briefing meant that an important mission must be in the works. Before long, the young man would find himself in some other far-flung corner of the world, performing another series of tasks clearly defined by his superiors. Serving rules he had sworn by, the man unquestioningly took actions his country would almost certainly deny.

He was tall, broad, dark in eye and hair. He was clean-shaven, something else he found rather uncomfortable. His features were angular, almost chiseled.

He followed the office numbers to the end of the corridor and turned left, passing door after door until he reached another darkened room, nondescript, closed-apparently as vacant as the other rooms. He did not hesitate, did not double-check the number. He knew he was right.

He precisely rapped three times on the wire-reinforced glass window. There was no name on the door. In the regular day-to-day activities of the Pentagon, the young man doubted other workers even noticed it.

The door opened from inside, and a man in a dark suit stood back in the shadows. The young man stepped into the dim room. His expression remained stony, emotionless-but his mind spun, sensing details, sensing options, scanning for any threat.

"Identify yourself," the suited man said, his voice disembodied in the shadows.

He did.

"Go to the rear of the office and close the door behind you," the shadowy man said.

The young man didn't thank him, simply followed his instructions, opening the back door to find a conference room. At one end of the wall hung a white projection screen.

There was a man there, standing behind the carousel of a slide projector. A tall, lean man in an immaculate charcoal-colored uniform. He had a steel-gray mustache and a scar running down one side of his face. He knew the man immediately, yet he didn't relax. He should have known Major Zero had something to do with this.

"Welcome, Jack," the major said in his clipped British accent. "Right on time."

"What's this about, sir?" the young man asked.

"Have a seat," Zero said.

The young man took one. Zero fiddled with the projector and clicked it on. "I've got some important news," he said crisply. "Pay attention. All of these details are important."

A glare of yellow-gold light splashed in a square across the screen, unfocused. Curiosity was not something he had learned in the course of his training. It had always been there, but his training had honed that curiosity into an unfailing memory and sharp attention to detail.

"The CIA has given us the go-ahead on the Virtuous Mission," the major said.

The young man arched an eyebrow, unsure if he had heard correctly. "Virtual mission?"

"No, the _Virtuous_ Mission," Zero replied. "The future of our FOX unit depends on it. If it succeeds, we'll be

officially organized into a unit."

"Virtuous Mission, huh?" The young man massaged his chin. "Sounds like some kind of initiation ritual."

"Don't get cocky," the major said crisply. "This isn't a training op."

"Right." He crossed his arms across his chest. "So what exactly is this wonderful mission?"

Major Zero fiddled with the slide projector. "About two years ago," he said, "a certain Soviet scientist requested asylum in the West through one of our moles. This man."

The slide projector focused quickly to show a man's face. He was balding, fortyish, with horn-rimmed spectacles and a pencil-thin mustache. His face was narrow, his eyes mournful.

"His name," Zero said, "is Nikolai Stepanovich Sokolov. He's head of the OKB- seven-five-four Design Bureau, one of the Soviets' top-secret weapon research facilities. He's also the East's foremost expert on weapons development."

The young man tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Sokolov?" he mused. The name sounded familiar, and it took him a second to place it. "Isn't he that famous rocket scientist?"

Zero nodded. "The very same."

The next slide was a grainy black-and-white image of a squat metal object that seemed to hang suspended in front of a large curve. The curve, the young man realized, was the Earth.

"On April 12, 1961, the Soviets achieved the first manned space flight in history." "The Earth was blue," the younger man muttered softly, "but there was no God." Zero nodded. "Well spoken. The rocket that carried Yuri Gagarin into space was

the A1, known as the Vostok rocket. Sokolov is said to be the man most responsible for the multi-engine cluster used in that rocket. After Gagarin's flight, Sokolov left rocket development to become the head of the newly-established Design Bureau."

"From a lowly technician to the head of a Design Bureau?" the young man said. "That's quite a success story. So why did he want to defect?"

Zero paused a moment, not out of hesitation, but rather out of drama. "It seems he'd become afraid of his own creations."

"Afraid?"

"Call it a crisis of conscience."

"And for that, he left his country and his family behind and went over the fence?"

Zero shook his head. "Not exactly. One of his conditions was that his family was also to be taken safely to the West. We used a mole to get the family out first, and succeeded in sneaking Sokolov over the Berlin Wall shortly afterwards. I was the one who conducted the operation."

The young man nodded. Back in the early days of the Cold War, the security on the Eastern side had more holes than a sieve. It was easy to get through the Iron Curtain back then. "Then what?"

"Well, we got Sokolov over in one piece," Zero said, "but the whole ordeal had left

him exhausted, and we checked him into a hospital in West Berlin. It took him two weeks and over six hundred miles to get from the research facility in the Soviet Union to Berlin. He was in no condition to say anything coherent." Then he hung his head slightly. "And it was only a week later that we had something much bigger on our hands."

"The Cuban Missile Crisis."

Zero nodded. The next slide was a newspaper headline: JFK ORDERS CUBAN BLOCKADE, BLAST REDS IF CASTRO ATTACKS.

"October 16, 1962," the major continued. "President Kennedy received word that the Soviets were in the process of deploying intermediate-range ballistic missiles in Cuba. The president demanded that the Soviets dismantle and remove the missiles. At the same time, he announced a naval blockade to prevent further missile shipments from reaching Cuba.

"But the Soviets didn't back down, instead placing their armed forces on secondary alert. Soviet transport ships carrying missiles continued on course toward Cuba. U.S. and Soviet forces went on alert for an all-out nuclear war. Frantic negotiations were conducted through the UN's Emergency Security Council and unofficial channels to end the hair-trigger standoff.

"Finally, on October 28, the Soviet Union agreed to remove its missiles from Cuba. And so the world avoided a nuclear holocaust. But in order to get the Soviets to pull their missiles out, we had to make a deal."

The young man leaned forward. "You mean the one where the U.S. agreed to remove its IRBMs from Turkey?"

"No." Now the major's voice dropped low. "The Jupiter IRBMs deployed in Turkey were obsolete, and we were going to get rid of them anyway. They had no strategic value whatsoever to either the U.S. or the Russians. The Turkey deal was a ruse-a cover story that was fed to the other intelligence agencies around the world."

"So what did the Russians really want?"

"Sokolov," the major said. "They wanted us to return Sokolov."

The young man perked up. "You mean the Soviets pulled out of Cuba just to get their hands on Sokolov?"

"That's right."

"What the hell was he working on?"

"At the time, we had no idea." Zero's voice was urgent now. "We were running out of time. It was either give up Sokolov or risk full-scale nuclear war. In the end, we had no choice. President Kennedy gave into Khrushchev's demand. The next day, I got Sokolov out of the hospital and handed him over to agents on the Eastern side. Sokolov kept on screaming 'Save me!' until he disappeared from my sight."

The major's face had taken on a color almost as gray as his uniform. The young man understood why. If a Soviet defector was being snatched back over the Wall, chances were high you would never see that man again.

Zero took a deep breath, then went on. "Then, a month ago, we received some new information from one of our moles."

"About Sokolov?"

"Yes. He was taken back to the research facility and forced to continue working on the weapon in question under strict KGB supervision. What's more, it's on the verge of completion."

The young man reached in his front pocket and pulled out a cigar. He clamped it between his teeth and lit it with a silver-plated Zippo. "So, what kind of weapon is it?" he asked. "Something to do with space rockets?"

"Missiles, actually."

"Same technology."

Zero shrugged. "I guess you're right. We don't know the details, but it appears to be some kind of nuclear device. For a year now, the Soviets have been conducting frequent nuclear tests at Semipalatinsk."

"Something to do with the weapon, I assume?"

"We're talking about a secret weapon so big that Khrushchev was ready to pull out of Cuba to get it back."

The young man blew a slow fume of smoke. "Is Sokolov still in the facility?"

The major nodded. "According to our intelligence, he's here."

The slide-projector clicked to the next image-a high-resolution satellite photograph with the lines and contours of a map overlaid upon it. The young man leaned forward, drinking in the image on the screen.

"This is Tselinoyarsk," Zero said. "A place in the mountains about three miles to the west, in an area that's known as the Virgin Cliffs."

"The Virgin Cliffs?" The young man snorted. "Nice name for a Virtuous Mission." "Indeed. They moved him there just recently."

"Why?"

"Apparently they're conducting a field test of the weapon. But it's our best chance to get him back. This mission would never have been possible if he were still in the research facility. This is our last chance. Sokolov must have known that, too, when he contacted us."

The young man squinted to see the site on the map.

"Listen up, Jack," Zero said. "Your mission is to infiltrate Tselinoyarsk in the Soviet mountains, ensure the safety of Sokolov, and bring him back to the West. If we don't get Sokolov back before that weapon is complete, we'll be facing a major crisis. The clock is ticking."

"I understand," the young man said.

"Once we've confirmed the rescue of Sokolov, stand by at the recovery point. A recovery balloon will be dropped at that point. Helium will be pumped into the balloon to inflate it. The process takes about twenty minutes. Once it's complete, the gunship's arm will latch onto the balloon and pull it up."

"The Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery System." The young man looked anxious for the first time. "I'm familiar with the theory, but . . ."

"Take it easy," Zero said. "It has been combat-proven."

The young man didn't take much comfort in that, but there was no time to dwell on it. "Do you think Sokolov's up to it?"

"The shock will be less than during a parachute jump. And the arm can handle up to five hundred pounds."

The young man's brow furrowed. "So you're planning to go over the border in a single Combat Talon?"

The next slide showed an image of a Lockheed MC-130 plane, the same sort of plane that would be carrying him into enemy airspace. He'd been on a couple in his time, despite the relative novelty of the plane.

Zero pointed at the guns bristling from the plane. "She's equipped with two six- barrel 20-millimeter Vulcan cannons, as well as two 40-millimeter machine-guns."

"Sounds like she could hold her own against a battalion of tanks."

"Yes." Zero turned back to him. "Even with the fuel in the reserve tank, we're facing a four-hour time limit. If all goes well, it shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"Home in time for dinner," the young man said.

"But if anything goes wrong," the major said ominously, "you'll be eating dinner, breakfast, and all the rest of the meals in the jungle."

Zero clicked off the slide projector, plunging the room back into its former dimness.

The young man sat there for a moment, his mind alive with words. Tselinoyarsk. Sokolov. Virtuous Mission . . .


	3. Over Tselinoyarsk, Soviet Territory

**Over Tselinoyarsk, Soviet Territory**

**0546 Hours**

He fell through void and space and sky like a meteor, his body angled towards the ground, a living bullet fired toward _terra firma. _The wind tore at his frame like hooked knives. Miles tore past in what felt like moments.

When he broke through the last of the clouds, he saw what looked like a rolling green ocean beneath, a vast jungle sprawling out endlessly in all directions. There was a razor's ridge of mountains in the distance, high ranges and plateaus that rose two thousand feet or so above the dense and verdant sea of jungle.

He streaked towards the ground, reaching terminal velocity. He could see his entire field of vision being swallowed by the jungle. That was his cue.

He closed his eyes, and pulled the break cord fixed to his chest. The parachute canopy unfurled with a loud _snap_, inflated all at once by the blast of air, and he felt a terrific shock as the chute jerked him upright.

He looked down, watching as he drifted down to earth. The jungle seemed vast, oppressive, almost _hungry_. He briefly observed the curiosity of a jungle this large existing in the heart of Russia. It was an unusual thing.

He put it out of his mind almost immediately. The jungle was here, and it was real. The jungle was the enemy, an obstacle, an object to be defeated-and the soldier had no doubt he would succeed in conquering it. That was his mission, and that was what he would do.

He saw his target underfoot: one of the green-carpeted plateaus that jutted up like the Rock of Gibraltar. He braced himself, closing his eyes as his feet skimmed the treetops, and then he crashed through the trees. Branches snapped across his chest, ripped at his fatigues, knocked the breath out of his lungs. He felt one of the straps on his pack give way, then felt it torn away raggedly as he dropped. He hit the ground and rolled, skidding through mud and undergrowth. His landing was curtailed by a fallen log, which mercifully stopped him from tumbling over the lip of the plateau and into open air.

The young man lay there for a moment. He knew that his torso would soon be a roadmap of bruises and scratches, but for now he couldn't dwell on that. He reached into his boot and drew his knife, cut across the bonds that fastened the chute to his body. It fell away like a dark shroud. He gathered it up, bunched it together. It wouldn't be used again, but he didn't want it to be spotted by any curious Soviet soldiers who might be around. By the time they found it, if they ever did, he planned to be long gone.

He knelt down, scanning the jungle warily. It was still, and yet alive with movement, creatures slipping around him with imperfect silence. He scrutinized the jungle, sniffed the humid air. Then he pressed his fingertips to his ear.

There was a brief hiss, and then he heard the major's voice, as loud and clear as though he were standing beside him. "Do you copy?"

"Roger that," the young man murmured.

"Good. You're already in enemy territory, and somebody might be listening in. From here on out, we'll be using code-names to refer to each other. Your code-name for this mission will be _Naked Snake_. I'll be referring to you as 'Snake' from now on. You are not to mention your real name."

"Snake?" The young man grunted.

"You don't like snakes?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've eaten one before, haven't you?"

The young man shrugged. "In survival training."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I don't know if I'd ever order one in a restaurant, though . . ."

"Be careful," the major said sharply. "You might not have a choice."

"What about you, Major?" Snake-even now, he was thinking of himself by his code-name, as his training dictated-asked. "What should I call you?"

There was a pause, and Snake heard the major mull it over. "Let's see . . . I'll be . . . I'll be Tom. Call me Major Tom."

_Major Tom, huh?_ The name sounded slightly ridiculous, but then again, so did his own.

"This will be a sneaking mission, Snake," the major went on. "You must not be seen by the enemy. You must leave no trace of your presence. Is that clear? This kind of infiltration is the FOX unit's specialty. In other words, weapons and equipment are procured on-site." He paused, then said. "That goes for food as well. You are _completely_ naked, just as your name implies."

"Great," Snake muttered. "_Now_ I see why you asked me if I liked snakes. I suppose calling me 'Snake' was your idea of a joke, too?"

"No." Now Zero's voice-or Major Tom's voice, rather-sounded stern. "There's a good reason for that. I'll tell you later, when the time is right."

"Gotcha." Snake looked around the area he had landed. A thick swath of forest loomed around him. He had pulled ops in similar terrain once or twice, but there was something rather otherworldly about where he'd landed. It didn't seem to be anything he'd expected to find nestled in the heart of Russia. He'd expected tundra, or some barren fields. Nothing like this. "Getting back to the subject, how am I supposed to feed myself?"

"You've been issued a knife and a tranquilizer gun," Major Tom told him. "Use them to hunt for food if you need to."

Snake felt the cold weight of the combat knife sheathed on his calf. The MK-22 tranquilizer gun, called the "Hush Puppy" by those who used it, was tucked in his suit. It was a Navy-modified S&W pistol, which had been the weapon of choice for all SEAL units. He pulled it out now, felt the weight of it in his hands. A silencer was tucked in one of his pockets; he pulled it out and screwed it to the muzzle.

"You'll also find some medical supplies in your backpack," the major said.

Snake grimaced. He glanced in the direction he'd come down in. He saw where the backpack was, hanging from the thatch of branches he'd crashed through. He sighed sourly. Climbing trees didn't bother him, but he wasn't too fond of the terrain as it was.

"I'll be monitoring your progress over the radio," Major Tom told him. "We can't risk violating Soviet airspace, but I'll be in the gunship. My frequency is 140.85."

"Right." Snake headed in the direction of the tree his pack was snagged in. "Give me a second."

He had landed on a shallow rise, and he slid down the slope as he made his way to the tree. It was a massive one, maybe five feet through the trunk. The pack was about twenty feet over his head. He sighed, then dug his fingers into the bark and started to climb.

It didn't take long to get to the branch. Snake held fast to the trunk, and reached for the pack. His fingers closed on a strap; he tugged at it and it fell from the branch, landing in the grass below. He slid down the trunk after it, and scooped it up.

The codec chirped. "Snake, do you still read?"

"I read, Major," he whispered, checking the contents of the pack. There was a medical kit, just as he'd been told. Bandages, sutures, styptic and even burn ointment. There were a couple more things tucked in the pack, rations maybe. He looked for anything he could use as a weapon besides what was on his person, but saw nothing. He knew why. Solo covert actions were standard FOX operating procedure. He couldn't leave any trace of his presence here. No weapons, equipment, footprints or even bodily fluids-the same went for bullets and cartridges, too. He was already in violation of at least a dozen international treaties and warfare conventions just by _being_ here. FOX wouldn't want to be the cause of an international incident.

"You can't let the enemy know you're there," the major reminded him. "This is a stealth mission. You're a ghost, Snake, in every sense of the word. There'll be no rescue if you're captured. The military and the U.S. government will deny any involvement in the affair."

"Then I'll just have to take care of myself."

"Correct. The mission rests entirely in your hands."

"A real one-man army," Snake said bleakly.

"Relax," Major Tom said. "There's a support team ready to back you up over the radio."

"Who?"

"I'll introduce them to you," the major replied. "This time, survival is of the utmost importance. The first member of the support team will be in charge of monitoring your physical condition-acting a medic, so to speak. She's a member of FOX as well, and she's here on the gunship with me."

Snake cupped his ear tighter. "'_She'?_"

The codec chirped, and then he heard another voice: "Hello, Snake." It was a girl's voice-no, a _woman's_ voice. High, bright, chipper-sounding. It startled Snake a little. "I'm Para-Medic. Nice to meet you."

"Para . . . Medic?"

"As in a medic who comes in by parachute," the girl clarified.

"Aren't you going to tell me your real name?"

"Are you gonna tell me yours, Mr. Snake?" Para-Medic asked knowingly.

_My name, huh? _Snake thought a bit, then said, "It's John Doe."

"And they call you Jack for short?" Para-Medic chuckled. "You're a regular Captain Nemo."

"A name means nothing on the battlefield," Snake said into the codec. "After a week, no one has a name. What about you? What's yours?"

"Jane Doe."

"Very funny," Snake said dryly.

"I wasn't joking," Para-Medic said, "but I'll tell you my name only if you manage to make it back alive."

"Good to know," Snake said with a small grin.

The codec squeaked again, and Major Tom was back on the line. "There's one more person I want to introduce you to, Snake."

"Yeah? Who?"

There was a pause, and then: "Hello, Jack."

Snake was very rarely surprised in the field, but the voice startled him. It was a woman's voice as well, but it was older. Soft, husky, almost feline-like. It made the hairs on the back of Snake's neck stand up. He knew the voice immediately-and why shouldn't he? He'd heard it every day for almost a decade, and even though it had been nearly half that time since he'd heard it, he would never forget the voice of-

"_Boss?"_

His head swirled. He almost didn't hear Major Tom say, "Actually, it was The Boss that got the DCI's authorization in the first place. She's going to be serving as FOX's mission advisor. She also helped me plan this mission. She and I were at SAS together."

The Boss's voice came back: "How many years has it been, Jack?"

Snake had to brace himself against a nearby tree. His mouth felt dry, like ashes. He could picture her as she looked the last time he had seen her:

"Talk to me," she said, sensing his distress. "Let me hear your voice."

"It's been five years, seventy-two days and eighteen hours," Snake said dully.

"You've lost weight."

"You can tell that from the sound of my voice?" Snake asked numbly.

"Of course I can. I know all about you."

Snake composed himself quickly despite his fluxing emotions. "Really? Well, I don't know anything about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," Snake said, trying to control his voice, "why did you disappear on me all of a sudden."

"I was on a top-secret mission," The Boss said promptly, as if it were the simplest answer in the world. Because it was. "You didn't need me anymore."

"But . . . but there were still so many things I wanted you to teach me."

"No," The Boss said sharply. "I taught you everything you needed to know about fighting techniques. I taught you all you could. The rest you needed to learn on your own."

Snake hesitated. He felt like a child again, back before the Green Berets, when the only human contact he'd had was The Boss. "Techniques, sure. But what about how to think like a soldier?"

The Boss almost laughed. "How to _think _like a soldier? I can't teach you that. A soldier needs to be strong in spirit, body, and technique-and the only thing you can learn from someone else is technique. In fact, technique doesn't even matter. What's most important is spirit. Spirit and body are like two sides of a single coin. They're the same thing. I can't teach you how to think. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself.

"Listen to me, Jack. Just because soldiers are on the same side right now doesn't mean they always will be. Having personal feelings about your comrades is one the worst sins you can commit. Politics determine who you face on the battlefield. And politics are a living thing. They change along with the times. Yesterday's good might be tomorrow's evil."

Snake steeled himself. "Is that why you abandoned me?"

"No," The Boss said. "It had nothing to do with you. I already told you, Jack. I was on a top-secret mission. A soldier has to follow whatever orders he's given. It's not his place to question why. But you're looking for a reason to fight. You're a born fighter, but you're not quite a soldier. A soldier is a political tool, nothing more. That's doubly true if he's a _career_ soldier. Right and wrong have no place in his mission. He has no enemies and no friends. Only the mission. You follow the orders you're given. _That's _what being a soldier is all about."

"I do whatever I have to do to get the job done," Snake said. "I don't think about politics."

"That's not the same thing," The Boss said. "Sooner or later, your conscience is going to bother you. In the end, you have to choose whether you're going to live as a soldier, or just another man with a gun." She paused. "There's a saying in the Orient: 'Loyalty to the end.' Do you know what it means?"

Snake thought about it. "Being . . . patriotic?"

"It means devoting yourself to your country."

"I follow the President and the top brass," Snake replied. "I'm ready to die for them if necessary."

The Boss snorted. "The President and the top brass won't be there forever," she said. "Once their terms are up, others will take their place."

"I follow the will of the leader. No matter who's in charge."

"People aren't the ones who dictate the missions," The Boss said.

"Then who does?"

"The times." The Boss sighed. "People's values change over time. And so do the leaders of a country. So there's no such thing as an enemy in absolute terms. The enemies we fight are only in relative terms, constantly changing with the times."

Snake listened, crouched next to the huge tree. He wasn't sure what to say.

"As long as we have loyalty to the end," The Boss went on, "there's no point in believing in anything." She paused, as though debating whether to say what came next. "Even in those we love."

"And that's the way a soldier is supposed to think?"

"The only thing we can believe in with absolute certainty is the mission, Jack."

Snake grunted. "All right. But do me a favor."

"What is it?"

"Call me Snake."

"Snake?" The Boss sounded confused, but only for the briefest of moments. "Oh, right. Your code-name is 'Snake.' It suits you well."

"That's right." It was Major Tom. "The legendary unit that The Boss put together during World War II was a snake. The Cobra Unit-a group of heroes that brought the war to an end and saved the world. As long as you've got a legendary hero backing you up, you'll be fine. Isn't that right, Snake?"

Snake had to agree. "One more thing, Boss."

The Boss's voice returned. "Yes?"

Snake smiled, despite himself. "It's good to hear your voice again."

"Same here. After all, who knows if either of us will make it out alive . . ." She trailed off, then recovered. "Snake, you were always best at urban warfare and infiltrating buildings. But this is the jungle. Survival is going to be key. Those CQC techniques I taught you are sure to come in handy."

_CQC-close-quarters combat_. Snake wasn't too certain of his skills. He'd been in the Green Berets for the last few years, and hadn't had cause to use the techniques The Boss had drilled him in, time and time again, during his apprenticeship. "I'm probably pretty rusty," he admitted.

"Not to worry," The Boss said smoothly. "I'll be here to help you remember. After all, this is your first actual survival mission. I'll be supporting you over the radio."

"Where are you, Boss?" He hadn't seen her on the plane. "Are you with the Major?"

The codec squelched, and Major Tom spoke. "The Boss is communicating with us by radio from aboard a Permit-class submarine in the Arctic Ocean. You need her help, her frequency is 141.80."

"Gotcha."

"Your mission," the major said, "is to retrieve Dr. Sokolov. Sokolov is being held in an abandoned factory located to the north of your current position. Avoid heavy combat, and don't let anyone see you. Don't forget: this is a stealth mission."

Snake rose to his feet. He braced the handle of the knife against the butt of the MK-22, just as The Boss had taught him years ago. That stance always had a relaxing effect on him.

"Commencing Virtuous Mission . . . _now_."


	4. The Virtuous Mission

**VIRTUOUS MISSION**

Snake had a compass built into the watch he wore on his wrist, but he didn't need it. In Russia, the sun rose in the east same as it did anywhere else on Earth, though he was willing to bet there were some politicians west of the Iron Curtain who didn't believe that. The factory where Sokolov was being held was north, so he started that way.

Despite his training, his mind whirled. Hearing The Boss's voice for the first time had briefly dislodged that single-minded focus he had attuned over the years, and he knew he had to get his mind back on track. Now was not the time to be dwelling on the past.

Still, though, it was hard to forget. The shadows of his past . . .

He'd been an observer at the Castle Bravo H-bomb detonation on Bikini in 1954. Snake was a soldier through and through, fresh from his tour of duty in Korea, and a lot of ambitious young recruits had, well, _collected_ bomb blasts in those days. A lot of men he'd served with tried to get themselves assigned to observe the nukes. They all thought it was fun. Castle Bravo was the only one Snake took part in, but it was more than enough for him.

It had been an awe-inspiring sight. Castle Bravo, the biggest yield ever measured for a nuclear detonation. Snake hadn't known it then, but later he'd found out that the yield was supposed to be five megatons, but instead it turned out to be nearly fifteen, amounting to an explosion equivalent to fifteen million tons of TNT. The blast had been _twelve hundred times_ more powerful than the Little Boy bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The fireball itself had been four miles wide.

The carrier they'd been aboard was a good distance away from it, but with the explosion being much larger than the safe area the Los Alamos eggheads had calculated, a lot of them got a significant dose of radiation. This horrendous whitish substance had rained down from the sky-they later learned it was calcium precipitated from the vaporized coral thrown up into the air. But that substance had brought with it something much more lethal. He'd heard the horror stories, of his fellow soldiers dying of various cancers and infections from the fallout. Snake himself hadn't shown any symptoms, but he suspected that the nasty effects of Castle Bravo would crop up sooner or later.

Two weeks after Castle Bravo, after he'd been subjected to a series of rigorous decontamination procedures, he'd first been introduced to The Boss. She was a legend, a myth, a name whispered among recruits like a ghost story. He could hardly believe his luck when she'd selected him to be her apprentice. Together, for the better part of a decade, they trained together, honing his skills as finely as a virtuoso musician tuned his instrument.

Under The Boss's tutelage, Snake learned everything there was to know about combat, weaponry, survival, espionage, infiltration techniques, even conversational mastery of foreign languages. Snake would never have considered himself a brilliant student, but The Boss inspired something in him that was more than loyalty-it was devotion, a single-minded hunger to cling to every word she spoke. _Get it right the first time_, The Boss had always said-and the young soldier had learned to follow that credo as he would the word of God. He could think of nothing worse than being forced to repeat a chore, a task, while The Boss paced in the background, a stern taskmaster and absolutely unforgiving. "The world is never forgiving," she had told her apprentice. "Best you learn that now." Snake had spent hours upon hours standing motionless against a wall, contemplating the things she taught him. He had learned how to focus utterly on a goal . . . how to get it right the first time.

It was more than a devotion between master and student, though-there was something else, something deeper, that seemed to course between them like electricity in the blood. Snake would have died for her, he had no doubt of that, and he never once questioned if she would do the same for him.

Then came June 12, 1959. The day that she had left, without a word. He could not ask questions and expect answers, not from his superiors, but in his heart he wondered, and over the next few years, in the completion of his duties across the globe, he tried to do things the way The Boss would want them done. Even two years ago, when he crossed paths with Zero and joined the major's fledgling FOX unit, he tried to replicate that connection within himself. And-

A beautiful green-feathered bird flitted across his sight from one tall tree to another, singing out a thin musical call. He tensed, and his mind snapped back to focus. One false step, and the jungle would finish him. There could be trip mines, claymores strung between trees that would blow him apart.

He froze in mid-step as he heard movement to the side-footsteps coming toward the meadow. He scrambled behind a tree just in time to avoid being spotted as two shadowy silhouettes emerged into view.

He could barely discern the men's features, as their faces were swathed in black balaclavas. But he did see without a doubt that they carried guns. Rifles. Their chests also bristled with green bulbs he immediately recognized as grenades. The men pointed their weapons downward as they patrolled, but Snake could see their fingers caressing the triggers.

Snake hunkered back behind the tree and pressed the codec. "Major, I've spotted two enemy soldiers."

"They're probably KGB troops," Major Tom responded, "sent to guard Sokolov."

"AK-47s and grenades. Pretty heavy firepower."

"Snake," the major warned, "your presence in Soviet territory is already a violation of international law. We can't let the Kremlin find out that the CIA and the American government are involved. Contact with the enemy is strictly prohibited."

_Yeah, figured as much. _Snake studied their movements. If he'd had a rifle of his own, it would be easy to pick them off from here.

"Don't engage them in battle either," Major Tom added, as though he could hear Snake's thoughts through the codec. "This is a _stealth_ mission. Got that?"

Snake grunted in affirmation, switching off the codec. The major was right. The whole point of the mission was to sneak through the forest without being spotted. The success of the whole operation depended on it.

He crouched low, skirting along the edge of the meadow, keeping himself hidden in the overgrown tangle of weeds that carpeted the clearing. The grass was excellent cover; it came up to the soldiers' waists, and they waded through it slowly. Snake never took his eye off of them. Even though they were clearly dawdling, not really expecting any enemy opposition, he didn't want to take any chances. When he slipped back into the jungle, he allowed himself a momentary pause, a sigh of relief, then he continued on.

Slogging through the underbrush, ducking under the branches and creepers and vines, Snake longed for a machete, something to make his journey through the jungle easier, but that would be far too loud for a stealth mission. He did his best to stifle any grunting as he made his way north. Water stood in puddles on the rocky ground. Thin mahogany trees with twisted trunks and smooth bark protruded in all directions, swallowed by flowering weeds and thorny shrubs. Ferns brushed Snake's legs, sprinkling droplets of water from frequent rainstorms.

After a while, Snake paused to rest beside a tall gray-barked tree. He waited for a few minutes while his stamina returned, then he trudged on, gun and knife still at the ready.

It wasn't long before he heard thunder, and he glanced up. The clouds in the sky were starting to gather, but he realized that the thunder had not come from above. Not only that, it was continuing on, a low rumble that Snake gradually realized came not from a storm but from a river. He pressed on.

The thunder grew, the air trembled, and when Snake finally saw its source it all clicked into place. The river was at the bottom of a canyon, hundreds of feet deep and twice that in breadth, that split the forest in a great crack. Snake scanned the canyon, and spotted a thin line spanning it, about a quarter mile to the left. A rope bridge. Snake also saw movement along the rope bridge. He squinted, and could make out four distinct shapes on either side of the bridge.

Snake cursed. He hardly had a chance of crossing the canyon unseen now, if that bridge was the only way to get across. He edged along the jungle, masking himself in the dense foliage as he crept closer to the bridge. The men on the bridge were dressed identically to the ones he'd snuck past before, in black balaclavas and carrying AK-47s. Bad news all around.

He scanned the clotted trees, low palms, the dense vegetation hanging from the branches. He then paused, fixating on a bulbous object about the size of a soccer ball, hanging from a branch directly above the mouth of the bridge, where two of the guards idly stood. Despite the thunder of the river below, Snake could hear a low hum, and he smiled. It wasn't humming. It was _buzzing_.

Snake raised the MK-22. He trained the barrel on the orb, squeezed off a shot. No one heard the low thud of the silencer, no one saw the hornet's nest blow apart. The low hum suddenly grew to an annoyed crescendo, and suddenly the two guards began to scream. No words, just screams. They dropped their weapons and flailed about, writhing in agony as the hornets sought them out. The soldiers mindlessly staggered back, stumbling blindly onto the bridge. The two guards at the far end of the bridge turned and started hurrying towards them, shouting in Russian.

Snake took a bead and squeezed. One of the soldiers jerked back as Snake's tranquilizer round caught him square in the chest. He stood where he was for a moment, then toppled face-first on the wooden slats. The other soldier heard the impact and turned, staring at his fallen comrade in confusion as Snake took aim again. This shot took the soldier in the neck, and he smacked at the wound in pain and surprise. Perhaps he thought he'd been stung by one of the angered hornets. When the round's contents hit the man's bloodstream a second later, his body slumped forward and he, too, fell.

The shrieking soldiers were howling now, and had fallen to their knees. They were rolling, squirming in pain, forgetting that they were on a rickety rope bridge hanging precariously over a canyon. Both men tumbled off the edge and plummeted silently out of sight. Snake didn't even hear the splashes.

He waited for a moment. He'd killed men before, certainly, but it was something you never got used to. Even though he hadn't directly slain them in battle, he had caused their deaths as surely as if he'd put a bullet in their heads. But there was no time to dwell on that now, if he ever would.

He rose to his feet and made his way to the bridge. The hornets were clearing, their angry horde dissipating in search of a new home. Snake picked up one of the soldiers' fallen AK-47s and slung it over his shoulder. He didn't intend to use it, not unless he had to.

He made his way along the bridge. It swayed as his weight added to it, the wooden planks sagging underfoot. Many of them were rotting, and more than a few had fallen away. Snake chanced a glance downward. The river was hundreds of feet below, a roaring deluge that seemed never-ending. He tore his gaze from the river and pressed on, careful to step over the bodies of the men he'd drugged, though not hesitating to kick their rifles over the edge into the void.

When he reached the other side he glanced back over at the still forms on the bridge. If he was lucky, he'd retrieve Sokolov and have already made it to the extraction point before they even stirred. The Hushpuppy's rounds packed quite a punch.

He set off again into the jungle. Snakes dangled from branches, looking at the intruder with cold eyes. Snake remembered what the major had said about possibly having to dine on them in case he was stranded here.

He had been moving for no more than five minutes before he saw the glint of metal through the trees ahead. He slowed his pace and crept closer, leaning against a tall tree and fishing the small pair of field binoculars tucked in his jacket.

He raised them to his eyes and looked out at the ancient, decaying ruin that had once been a factory. Gray clouds hung in the sky, casting the site in a cool gloom, as the rusting edifices towered like hulking shapes in a storm.

The shadow of the factory was like an afterimage on the eyes. Snake scanned the area. There was movement amongst the weathered structure-a lot of it. He carefully picked out a half dozen black-garbed soldiers patrolling the factory's perimeter. If Sokolov was indeed held captive here, he was under pretty solid guard.

His codec squeaked, and he tapped his ear. The major's voice chirped, "Snake, have you reached the abandoned factory at Rassvet yet?"

"Yeah." Snake wrinkled his nose. "This place is a _dump_."

"Can you see any sign of Sokolov?"

Snake squinted through the binoculars. "Not from here. The security here's pretty tight. There are sentries posted around the perimeter." _I wonder how many are inside_, he thought but didn't add.

"Then your objective-Sokolov-is inside the factory itself. They should be holding him in a room in the northeast sector."

"The northeast section. Got it."

"Be careful. Your mission is to bring back Sokolov _alive_. He must not be exposed to any kind of danger."

"Right." Snake moved to switch off the codec.

"There's one more thing, Snake."

Snake tensed. The last thing he wanted to hear was a new development in the mission. "You mean there's _more_."

"No." The major's voice softened. "It's just . . . when you get to Sokolov, I want you to tell him something from me."

"And that is?"

"'Sorry for being so late.'"

Snake smiled despite himself. So the old hardass had a heart, after all. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Understood. Beginning my approach to the target."

He skirted the treelike, looking for a possible point of egress. He didn't have to look far; the walls had rusted through in places. One particular spot had a gaping hole more than large enough for a man to climb through. Snake readied the MK-22, trained it on a passing soldier nearing the gap. He took the man down and scrambled out of the trees, crouch-running towards the hole. When he got there, he glanced about, preparing for gunfire. None came. He hadn't been spotted.

Snake took a moment to get his bearings. If Sokolov really was being held in the northeastern section of the factory, he'd have to take out any guards along the way. The Hushpuppy had over two dozen rounds left, so he wasn't worried about that. What _did_ trouble him was being spotted before he could knock them out. He didn't much fancy using a tranquilizer pistol against a squad of Kalashnikov-wielding Reds.

Snake navigated through the ruined factory. It was more than dilapidated; it was _crumbling before his very eyes_. Some of the damage looked like the harsh Russian weather, but a lot of it looked like someone had shelled the hell out of the place. He wondered if Rassvet had ever been invaded by the Germans during World War II, or if Stalin's men had used the factory for target practice. And-

His thought broke off when he saw a guard standing between two stacks of crates. There was a battered gray door behind him. Snake realized he had damn near walked right into the guard's line of sight. The sentry looked alert, too, which troubled Snake. That meant that whatever was behind that door was worth guarding.

Snake thought for a moment. He couldn't shoot the guard, not from this angle. If he tried and missed, the guard would turn and open fire. Then the whole mission would go to shit. Snake wasn't willing to risk the element of surprise.

Then an idea crossed his mind. Snake bent down and picked up a ragged chunk of brick from the rotting wall. He reared back and lobbed it. It bounced off one of the crates with a loud smack, startling the guard. He looked in its direction, swinging his rifle toward it, and Snake took his chance. He sprang forward and seized the guard's mouth with one hand, tilting his head back and baring his throat. With the other hand, he pressed his knife to the man's neck.

_Da svidanya, _Snake thought as he drew the blade across the soldier's throat.

The soldier opened his mouth, but only a low wheeze escaped as his lifeblood gushed out of the new mouth Snake had made in his gullet. Snake felt the man's body go limp in his arms.

Snake wiped the blade on the corpse's tunic and turned his attention to the door the soldier had been guarding. The northeast door . . . this must be it.

He reached for the handle and jiggled it. Unlocked. He heard movement on the other side. And something else, too.

Muttering.

Snake braced himself and opened the door. He slipped inside and closed it behind him.

The room was bare, save for a few utilitarian lockers, an old wood stove in the corner, and a moth-eaten cot. The floor was planked with wood going green with age. A window streaked with mildew threw dappled light over the room. The man he'd been sent to find was huddled in the corner of the room, in front of the stove. Smoke was belching from the stove, where a healthy fire was crackling. Nikolai Stepanovich Sokolov was busy cramming papers into the blaze, feeding it like an engineer stoking a locomotive. He was so preoccupied he didn't hear Snake until the soldier was almost beside him.

"You must be Sokolov," he said in perfect Russian.

The scientist squealed and looked up. He hadn't looked well in the dossier picture Zero had shown him at the Pentagon brief, but his time in captivity had made him look like a living ghost. Sallow-faced, gaunt to the point of starving, his glasses smudged and his face haggard, Sokolov looked more like a refugee from a concentration camp than a world-renowned rocket researcher. What little bit of hair he had was unkempt, graying. His wide, strikingly blue eyes blinked in owlish surprise.

"Are you one of Volgin's men?" There was something in Sokolov's voice. Fear, yes, but also disdain. Before Snake could answer, the scientist seized a double handful of papers and stuffed them into the fire. "You'll never get it from me!"

Snake shook his head. "I'm a CIA agent," he said. "I've come to escort you to the other side of the Iron Curtain?"

Sokolov froze. He stared at Snake doubtfully. "You're . . . CIA?"

"I was sent by Major Zero. The man who got you out two years ago."

A light flickered in Sokolov's eyes. "Zero . . ."

"I have a message from him."

"What is it?"

"He said to tell you, 'Sorry for being so late.'"

Sokolov chuckled, a hollow, raspy sound. "Did he now?"

"What does it mean?"

"It means," Sokolov said, rising to his feet, "that he's a man of his word. But we've got no time for this. You have to get me out of here before they arrive."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Colonel Volgin."

"Volgin?"

"Yes." Sokolov's eyes narrowed. "Colonel Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin of GRU. You in the West know him as 'Thunderbolt.'"

_Thunderbolt_? Snake's brow furrowed. "Never heard of him."

"He's a member of the army's extremist faction," Sokolov explained. "A man who seeks to seize control of the motherland. Ever since the Cuban Missile Crisis two years ago, Khrushchev has been pursuing a policy of peaceful coexistence with the West. Despite resistance and criticism from hawks in the army, and the provincial authorities, Khrushchev has managed to suppress the opposition so far." Then Sokolov shook his head sadly. "But the failure of his agricultural policies has put him in a precarious position. And on top of that . . . the tragedy last November."

Snake knew what he meant immediately. "President Kennedy's assassination."

"Precisely. In a sense, Khrushchev has lost his biggest partner, and his power base is rapidly crumbling away. A certain group is plotting to use this opportunity to seize power by rallying the anti-government forces, overthrowing Khrushchev, and installing Brezhnev and Kosygin in his place. The mastermind behind this plot is Colonel Volgin of the GRU." Sokolov spat out the name like it tasted bad. "He has control over another secret weapons research facility much like this one-OKB-eight-one-two, known as the Granin Design Bureau-and is using it to further his plans. But that is not enough to satisfy him. Now he is plotting to seize the secret weapon I have been developing here and use it as leverage in his bid for power." He swallowed. "The intelligence says that they are going to make their move during the test."

Snake mulled over what Sokolov was telling him. "Then the soldiers outside . . ."

Sokolov nodded. "Exactly. They wouldn't need that many men use to keep me inside. Their orders were to prevent Colonel Volgin from capturing me. Even if it meant killing me in the process, or so it would seem." The scientist lurched forward, seizing Snake's arm. "Volgin _will_ come, I'm sure of it. You must get me out of here before then."

Snake put a hand on the scientist's bony shoulder. "Leave it to me."

Sokolov nodded. Then he smiled. "By the way, your Russian is superb. Where did you learn to speak it?"

"From my mentor."

Sokolov arched an eyebrow. "Is that so? America truly is a frightening country."

"Having second thoughts?"

Sokolov shook his head fervently. "No. I have no love for this place. Let's go."

Snake nodded. He turned away from the scientist and placed a hand to his ear. "Major, do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Snake."

"Sokolov is safe with me. He's doing fine. No injuries. Borderline malnutrition, but that's it."

He heard a sigh of relief on the line. "Good work, Snake," Major Tom said. "Now hurry up and get Sokolov to the recovery point. We'll rendezvous with you there."

"Roger that."

"What about the sentries?"

Snake sighed. "I had to kill one of them," he said. "There was no other way. But no one will know we were involved. No one else spotted me."

"I see." There was a tinge of disapproval in the major's voice.

"What about The Boss?" He'd hoped to hear her thoughts on the mission at hand.

Major Tom hesitated. "We . . . we lost contact with The Boss some time ago."

Snake stiffened. "What happened?"

"Relax," the major replied. "It's probably just a weak signal. Just hurry and get Sokolov out of there."

The connection ended, and Snake turned back to Sokolov. The scientist blinked at him and Snake nodded. "Come on," he grunted.


	5. A Cat and a Traitor

**A CAT AND A TRAITOR**

When they stepped out of the complex, Snake opened his mouth to tell Sokolov to keep quiet . . . and then he felt the cold ring of a rifle barrel sock against his temple. "Freeze!"

Five soldiers were standing around the entrance, all of them with their weapons pointed at the two men. Snake chanced a glance up, saw a sixth standing on a low roof of a nearby building. He closed his eyes and swore. If only The Boss were here . . .

"Step aside!"

The rifle barrel pressed against his head vanished. And Snake looked up as the soldiers stepped back, confused. Another man was striding towards him. He was young, clean-cut, boyish-looking despite his angular face and icy glare. His hair was light, cropped close to his skull. A maroon beret was cocked almost jauntily on his head. He wore an immaculate black uniform, with the insignia of a GRU major on his lapel. Snake was surprised. This man-this _boy_-looked barely old enough to even be in the Russian military, much less an officer of distinction.

The officer's gloved hands were full of gun. Twin Makarov PMs, the standard sidearm for Soviet soldiers. Except the youth was twirling them, spinning them, like a desperado out of the Old West. The guns moved so fast you could scarcely make them out as anything but steel-colored blurs.

The major strutted up to Snake. "So _this_ is the legendary Boss," he mused. "We meet at last!"

One of the KGB soldiers stared at the youth. "You! You're from the OCELOT unit of Spetsnaz!"

"What's a GRU soldier doing here?" another soldier wanted to know.

The youth glared. "_Soldier?_"

Another trooper's eyes widened. "He's the OCELOT commander!"

The young man rounded on the one who had spoken, pointing his gloved finger at the man's chest. "That's _Major_ Ocelot to you. And don't you forget it."

The first soldier jabbed the barrel of his rifle at the major's chest. "Sokolov is ours," he said. "Now get out of here."

The man called Ocelot smiled. "An ocelot _never_ lets his prey escape."

The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances. "Wha-"

Ocelot's hands suddenly became red blurs, and the air erupted with gunfire. The first soldier flew back, a new hole in his throat. The two standing behind him dropped like dominoes a second later. Ocelot spun around, twisting his elbows and firing the Makarovs into the two KGB troops standing bewildered behind him. Ocelot then turned, watching as the soldier on the roof ducked for cover. He sneered, and fired a shot. The bullet ricocheted, glancing off a metal beam, and Snake heard a scream abruptly cut short.

_The kid's got style, I gotta give him that._

Ocelot adjusted his maroon beret, as coolly as if he'd just gone for a short walk rather than gunning down six armed KGB soldiers. "I can't say it feels good to kill a comrade," he said, his voice tinged with lament. Then he shrugged. "Even if it is for the GRU."

Snake readied his pistol, glancing at Sokolov. The scientist was quavering with fear. "Sokolov, take cover," he hissed.

Ocelot turned and ambled over, twirling the pistols in either hand again. His brow furrowed. "You aren't The Boss, are you?"

Before Snake could say anything, Ocelot opened his mouth and let out a loud yowling sound. It reminded Snake of an angry cat. A moment later, several black-garbed soldiers seemed to materialize from all around him, wielding rifles and red berets. Sokolov moaned in horror.

"GRU operatives . . ."

Ocelot, meanwhile, had taken an interest in something else. He looked Snake up and down. "What is that stance?" he said, his sneer deepening. "That gun?"

He started to laugh, a loud, boisterous sound, like a kid trying to impress his friends. The other soldiers started to laugh as well. Snake kept his eye on Ocelot, and the guns he twirled. He had a feeling-

Ocelot's laughter silenced and his voice turned icy. "If you're not The Boss," he said, "then die!"

He raised one of the pistols and squeezed the trigger.

Misfire.

Ocelot's eyes widened as Snake's fist connected with his jaw. Ocelot flew back as Snake planted a boot on the young man's chest, knocking him to the ground. Sokolov shrieked with horror and took off, running into the jungle.

One of the GRU soldiers saw him run and raised his rifle. He triggered a burst, but Sokolov had already disappeared in the jungle.

"You idiot!" Ocelot gasped. "Shoot the other one!"

Snake sprang into action. He seized one of Ocelot's pistols and lobbed it at one of the soldiers, shattering the man's nose. He grabbed the man's rifle and swung it in a hard arc, smashing the barrel against another soldier's skull. The other soldiers had barely raised their own weapons before Snake threw himself back, opening fire. The three soldiers went down. He threw the rifle away and walked back over to their stricken commander, who was flailing for his other pistol.

Ocelot closed his fingers around the Makarov, swinging it to bear on the American spy. Snake saw it coming. He seized Ocelot by the wrist and planted his other hand on the young commander's breastbone, shoving him to the ground hard enough to rattle the Russian's teeth in his head. The gun fell from Ocelot's nerveless fingers. When it did, the jammed round spent itself from the cartridge with a loud clack.

Ocelot lay on the ground, stunned. He blinked at Snake, unable to believe what had just happened. It just . . . it was . . . "_Impossible!_" he blurted, as though stating it would have changed things.

"You ejected the first bullet by hand, didn't you?" Snake nodded in approval. "I see what you were trying to do. But testing a technique you've only heard about in the middle of battle? That wasn't very smart. You were asking to have your gun jam on you."

Ocelot stared at the American soldier. How dare he presume to lecture him, here on the battlefield of all places! He straightened his arm, felt the knife he kept up his sleeve slide into his palm.

Snake smiled. "Besides," he said, kicking the gun out of Ocelot's reach, "I don't think you're cut out for an automatic in the first place. You tend to twist your elbow to absorb the recoil." He demonstrated with his own arm. "That's more of a revolver technique."

Ocelot looked up, anger flickering across his face. He lifted the knife-

"_You filthy American dog!"_

-and thrust the blade forward, but Snake easily sidestepped the attack, seizing the young man's arm and twisting it, then shoving the youth face-first into the dirt. Ocelot grunted as his chin smacked the earth hard.

Ocelot moaned, rolling on his back. Snake stepped back. "But that _was_ some fancy shooting," he said. "You're pretty good."

Ocelot blinked dazedly. "Pretty good," he repeated. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Snake stepped back. The young major was tough; he'd wake up with one hell of a headache in a few minutes. By then, he wanted to be as far away from Rassvet as possible. He turned and started off in the direction Sokolov had gone. Along the way, he tapped his ear.

"Major Tom, do you read me?"

"I read you. Snake, are you all right?"

"I've run into a few snags," he reported. "These guys were after Sokolov as well. Apparently, they were taking orders from a GRU colonel named Volgin."

"A GRU colonel?" Major Tom sounded confused.

"Yeah. Part of an internal Soviet power struggle, according to Sokolov. Something between the KGB and the GRU, between Khrushchev's supporters and Volgin's."

Major Tom seemed to mull that over. "Sokolov was being guarded by the KGB and hunted by the GRU? Snake, it sounds like this could be even hotter than Cuba."

"I don't like it," Snake said. "Something about this whole thing stinks."

"I agree. You'd better hurry. We're counting on you."

Snake turned around to make sure he wasn't being followed, and continued on. He figured Sokolov would be waiting at the rope bridge, waiting for either the GRU commander or for his American savior. He hoped the scientist would have sense to hide in case the troops he'd tranquilized there had roused from their sleep.

When he broke through the jungle at the canyon, he saw Sokolov leaning against a tree, panting with exertion. His head kept darting about, like a dog who has sensed a storm coming. When Snake emerged into view, Sokolov tensed, then relaxed.

"Are you okay?" Snake asked.

The scientist's face was shining with sweat. "Those men were from the OCELOT unit!" he babbled.

"Spetsnaz?"

"Yes. The very best that GRU has to offer." His eyes scanned the jungle around them anxiously, as though expecting the young major and his forces to spring out at them again. "They're coming for me. I'm finished!"

"Calm down," Snake grunted. He placed a hand on the Russian scientist's shoulder to relax him. "I'll get you out of here, I promise."

"I've heard that before," Sokolov muttered.

"We've got some of the best backup we could ask for."

Sokolov opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden rush of thunder engulfed the air, echoing across the river canyon. Snake looked up at the ominous sky, but Sokolov's eyes raked the high bluffs of the nearby mountain range. "There!"

Snake looked where the scientist was pointing. The high bluffs were a few miles to the east, but he could see a large shape jutting from one of them. A wisp of smoke obscured it. Snake fished out his field glasses, raising the binoculars to his eyes.

It was a massive tank-like vehicle of sorts, with a large cylindrical shaft that was unmistakably a volley gun. Snake couldn't see much of it, as most of it was obscured by the smoke and the rock outcropping, but it looked like bad news.

"Is _that_ what they were making you build?"

Sokolov nodded, his face grim. "Yes. It is the Shagohod."

"Shagohod?"

"Yes. The Treading Behemoth. It is a tank capable of launching nuclear IRBMs."

Snake was astonished. He had just noticed that the Shagohod's perch was rather precarious, buttressed right on the edge of the bluff, smoke wafting from its titanic barrel. "It can launch nuclear missiles from that kind of terrain?"

"Oh yes." Now Sokolov's voice was tinged with pride. "And without support from friendly units."

_A nuclear-equipped tank capable of operating solo_. Snake shuddered at the thought of what that would mean for the Cold War. "Is that thing finished?"

"No," the scientist replied, and Snake felt a little better. "This is only the end of Phase One. It won't be truly finished until we complete Phase Two."

"Phase Two?" Snake repeated.

Sokolov nodded. His face darkened. "The weapon's true form. If it is completed, and Volgin gets his hands on it . . ." He trailed off, then shuddered. "It will mean the end of the Cold War. Then the age of fear will truly begin."

Snake knew the result. "A new world war."

Sokolov nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I had no choice but to cooperate," he said desperately. "I didn't want to die. I wanted to see my wife and child again in America."

He seized Snake's arm. "Please! Take me to America quickly." He nodded toward the ridge. "They cannot complete it without my help."

Snake looked at the scientist. "Better get a move on, then."

The mist rising from the roaring river was growing in intensity, so much that he could barely make out the other side of the bridge. He nudged Sokolov, and the scientist followed him, meekly moaning as the two cautiously made their way over the bridge.

The first thing Snake noticed was that the bodies of the men he'd knocked out were no longer on the bridge. He wondered if perhaps they'd followed their comrades into the drink, but better to assume they were somewhere close, alive and waiting. And-

And someone was coming.

He saw the silhouette through the mist, a shape that was coming closer towards them on the bridge. He drew the MK-22 and leveled it at the shape's chest, waiting for a clean shot. Then the fog seemed to slip away for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to show Snake who it was, and the surprise hit him like a freight train.

"_Boss?_"

She wore a white HALO jumpsuit, of a similar design to the one he himself wore. Her fine blonde hair was pulled back by a headband, as was her fashion. Her sphinx-like poise, fascinating and fluid. He had seen the woman charge headlong into battle without so much as flinching. Her eyes like a cat's, lowered in a gaze that smoldered as well as chilled.

She carried two stainless-steel cylinders, one in either hand. The cylinders looked heavy, maybe a couple hundred pounds apiece. Yet The Boss somehow carried them with no effort at all.

The Boss dropped one of the cases on the bridge. It buckled a little, swaying unsteadily. Snake seized at the rope for purchase as the bridge listed sharply, but The Boss remained unmoved. She set down the other case, and the bridge abruptly leveled out. Behind him, Sokolov moaned in horror.

"Good work, Jack," The Boss said.

Snake was puzzled. He lowered the pistol. "What are you doing here?"

Those hooded ice-water eyes flickered over Snake's shoulder at the quivering scientist. "Sokolov comes with me."

Snake opened his mouth to speak, but found that words had failed him. His mind spun. What was going on? Did Zero not trust him to extract Sokolov, instead entrusting his safety to his former mentor? He was at a loss, and he didn't even notice the low hum, familiar but somehow louder, _heavier_, until his ears filled with the drone.

_Hornets_.

Not just the ones he'd riled up before; they closed in on the trio in a great wave. They were huge, slow-moving things, an inch long. He swatted at them, desperate to keep them off his bare skin. But whenever he would brush them away, more would come. He sank to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut, only to realize he didn't feel the hot stab of pain from them. He looked up and saw The Boss standing there, not even flinching. Instead she gave a curt nod.

There was a shriek, and Snake turned just in time to see something yank Sokolov bodily into the air. Through the buzzing haze of hornets, Snake could see a frightening-looking figure had closed around the scientist like a spider-a figure with a sharp, pale face and a shark's grin. The figure had ascended into the air with the scientist kicking and screaming, and Snake could dimly make out a rope hoisting Sokolov and his abductor into the air. And then he caught it, another sound blended with the thrum, a deeper rumble that built and emerged until it was clear: the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter. And there it was. A big-bellied gunship, with the red star of the Red Army emblazoned on the side, hovering fifty feet or so overhead.

There was a sudden white crack of lightning, and everything flared bright. It that flash he saw Sokolov dragged into the helicopter. In addition to Sokolov's captor, he saw the briefest glimpse of at least two other shapes.

He turned his gaze back to The Boss, who was staring up at the chopper. "My friends," she said, her voice strangely amplified by the hornets' droning. "Let us fight together again!"

He could scarcely believe it, but a voice replied, a hissing voice that prickled the hairs on the nape of Snake's neck. "I have waited long for this day."

The thunder crashed, deafeningly loud and very close. Another voice seemed to respond, this one rough and guttural, almost choking: "We will fight with you once more."

And then one final rejoinder, in a voice that was frail and sounded like whispering leaves. "Welcome back, Boss."

Snake saw a smile flicker across The Boss's face. "Now that all five of us are together, it's time we go to the depths of Hell itself."

Snake felt a bolt of realization strike him. Those voices must have belonged to the men The Boss fought with during the war, the ones that had become myths alongside her. The Boss had never spoken of them during their time together, though he'd often asked.

The Cobra Unit.

The first drops of rain started to fall, and he saw The Boss's body tense. His mind, which was already blitzed by confusion, reeled even more. The Boss had fought in all sorts of weather, and yet the rain here seemed to bring with it something else.

She held up a hand to her face, staring at it with a look that Snake had never seen on her face before. Was it . . . _tenderness?_

"It's raining blood," she whispered. She looked back up at the sky. "Is he crying?"

Snake felt a sudden chill when lightning flared up in jagged brightness and he saw something flicker over The Boss's shoulder. It was gone, and he doubted that what he had seen had really been there, but for a moment he thought he'd seen a face behind The Boss-a grinning, ethereal face under a dark hood. The Boss spun around, as though she'd sensed the apparition, but she saw nothing there.

There was a sharp crack of thunder, and then Snake saw something appear on the other end of the bridge. A figure that seemed to move ponderously, like a great wall on legs. The bridge sagged a bit further as the man approached. He easily stood six feet, eight inches tall. Even though he wore a heavy gray trenchcoat, which looked blanket-sized to him, Snake could tell he was broad in the shoulders and deep through the chest, laced over with all kinds of muscle. It was a wonder he didn't snap the planks under his feet as he walked. Snake wondered if they even would dare to break. He was bald, his skin an almost corpse-like color. Bunched scars ran down one side of his jaw, like something had seared him. His mouth was a grinning rictus that was almost obscene.

What drew Snake's attention from that horrid smile was the man's slab-like fists. He wore bright blood-colored gloves, and as he approached he flexed them, cracking the knuckles. Snake saw blue fire seem to glow between the man's fingers, little sparks of electricity that hummed. There was a smell about him, too-it reminded him of an overheated transformer, or the air after a lightning storm.

"_Kuwabara, kuwabara,_" the man chanted. His voice was a deep and quiet rumble. Snake realized who this man was even before he reached them. If there was anyone else deserving of the moniker "Thunderbolt," Snake couldn't imagine him.

Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin stopped just behind The Boss. She barely came up to his water-barrel of a chest; she looked like a little girl next to a bear. His grin grew wider, exposing all of his teeth and most of his gums. "What a joyful scene."

The Boss nodded curtly. "Colonel Volgin."

Volgin's head dipped a bit in respect, and he threw his arms out in good humor. "Welcome to my country, _Voyevoda_," he said. "And to my unit."

Snake finally found his voice. "Boss? What _is_ this?"

The Boss turned back to him. "I'm defecting to the Soviet Union," she said, as breezily as if she were saying the sun would set in the west.

Snake stared at her, aghast.

"Sokolov is a gift for my new hosts," The Boss added.

Volgin stooped down. Each hand found one of the stainless-steel cylinders The Boss had set down. "Recoilless nuclear warheads?" He lifted them up as effortlessly as if they were cardboard, tucking one over each shoulder. "These will make a fine gift for me."

_This can't be happening_, Snake thought crazily. _It can't._

Volgin's eyes fell on the young soldier for the first time. "Who is he?" he demanded. His eyes narrowed. "Another one of your disciples?"

The Boss said nothing. Volgin sidled past her, still studying Snake as though he were an interesting breed of insect. "Are we taking him with us?"

The Boss shook her head. "No. This one is still just a child. Too pure for us Cobras." Her cat's eyes swept over Snake with a sort of glacial contempt. "He still hasn't found an emotion to carry into battle."

That stare galvanized Snake. He raised the pistol again, pointing the barrel at his old mentor. "What are you talking about?" he growled.

The Boss stepped closer serenely, her gaze never wavering. "Think you can pull the trigger?"

Before Snake could react, she seized the gun with one hand and shoved her elbow into Snake's chest. He grunted and toppled backward as The Boss pulled back on the MK-22's recoil mechanism, snapping it away from the weapon and flinging it into the river below. It happened in the blink of an eye.

Snake recovered quickly, rising back to his feet into the fighting stance The Boss had drilled into him mercilessly. He lashed out, but The Boss was ready. She grasped his fist and twisted it, knocking Snake off-balance. His arm was twisted behind his back, held there by The Boss. Before he could recover, The Boss brought her elbow down hard onto his. He heard it snap. The pain was instantaneous and huge. He yelled. The Boss released. He sank to his knees, his arm hanging uselessly at his side.

_Dislocated, maybe even broken._

Volgin set the cylinders down on the other end of the bridge. Now he turned and began to walk back. "He's seen my face. We can't let him live." Through the haze of pain, Snake looked up. Sparks were flying from between Volgin's knuckles. Volgin was no longer smiling. "If Khrushchev finds out about this, we're finished. He must die."

He moved to grab the wounded soldier, but a hand blocked him. The Boss stood there, her steely gaze meeting Volgin's. "Wait," she said.

Volgin lowered his hand, and The Boss turned to look at the man she'd all but immobilized with agony. Snake looked up at her, tears of pain stinging his eyes. She seemed to waver, shimmer to him.

"He's my apprentice," she said. "I'll take care of him."

Volgin crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled. He was renowned and feared among the troops he commanded for the pleasure he took in doling out punishment. Had anyone else intervened, he might very well have ignored them . . . but he didn't want to cross his new ally. "Very well. But make it quick."

The Boss looked down at Snake. "Jack," she said, her voice firm and even. "You can't come with us."

She reached out. Snake stared at the hand for a moment, then took it. She squeezed it once, and for the briefest of instants Snake forgot the pain in his arm. It was replaced by the pain in his heart, his soul.

"Boss . . ."

Then the agony returned in a sharp rush, and The Boss suddenly yanked him to his feet. As she did, she threw her weight to one side, and Snake was lifted from the bridge. Snake lashed out desperately, wildly, with his good arm, and he felt his fingers close over something. He held it tightly as The Boss flung him off the bridge.

He hung there in the void for a frozen moment of horror, staring stupidly out at the jungle that fell sharply into the river. And then he fell.

He screamed once, only once, before he hit the river.


	6. I Am Become Death

**... I AM BECOME DEATH**

* * *

The Boss never took her eyes off her old apprentice until he disappeared beneath the roaring river. The scream that echoed in her ears would never leave them.

She heard a laugh from above, guttural and phlegmy. That was The Pain, never one for sympathy. "The new blood has been rejected."

"Are we done here?" Volgin asked impatiently.

The Boss tore her gaze away from the river at last. Her eyes were like flashes of steel. "Now," she said, "on to Sokolov's research facility."

Volgin's mouth broke open in that grin again. "The Shagohod is ours!"

He turned, walking to where another one of the gunships would be awaiting them. The Boss lingered a moment longer, then looked back into the channel. The water continued to flow, as it always had, angry and swollen.

_Drift away_, she thought. _My place is with them now_.

. . .

He was tumbling through the current at an alarming rate, his lungs filling with water. The pain in his arm was blinding, but he somehow managed to kick towards the glimmering flashes of sky. When he broke out, he gasped, sucking in air and coughing out water.

He slammed into a boulder sticking out of the water like a big blunt arrowhead and cartwheeled, the breath slapped again from his body. He clung to it, trying to keep his head above water. The sharp edges of the rock scrawled bloody scratches across his face and arms. He braced himself against it, gasping, desperately searching for the shore.

_There_. He saw the riverbank, fifteen feet or so to his left. He took a deep breath and shoved himself back into the current, desperately kicking with all his might. When he felt his knees scraping against rock he managed to fling himself onto the beach, and he came to rest with his ruined fatigues soaked to his skin and his heart beating crazily in his ears. His arm was white fire. His jacket and the shirt beneath were both rucked up to his chin.

He began to feel as if he were going to puke. He looked up at the cloudy sky still pregnant with rain and tried not to scream.

He rose to his feet and took two big staggering steps and leaned against a fallen tree that rested on the bank. His head felt light. Color kept washing in and out of the world.

He heard a faraway drone, and for a moment he thought the hornets had returned. Then a voice, distant: "_Snake? Snake, can you hear me?_"

The codec. Snake groaned, sicked up water and gravel. "Yeah. Just barely."

The world seemed to wash out in that sick gray again. The codec chirped again and Major Tom's voice came in louder, his voice dark with worry. "Snake, what happened? Report!"

Snake raised his head slightly, sending an incredible bolt of pain through it. His body was a ragged mess. The pain in his arm was monstrous. He also suspected he'd sprained one ankle, and his entire torso was a great throbbing mess. _I hope my ribs aren't broken,_ he thought. He winced at the daggers of agony as he spoke. "Multiple injuries."

"Snake, listen to me! You need emergency medical treatment. Can you move?"

Snake groaned, did his best not to vomit.

"Snake!" Another voice, softer. It was Para-Medic. "Let's get you fixed up. Just relax and it'll all be over before you know it."

Snake opened his mouth and groaned.

"Stay with me!" she said urgently. "I've seen people in worse shape before. You can handle it."

Snake squeezed his eyes shut. He gasped out words in a slurry. "The . . . The Boss, she . . . defected . . ."

"We'll talk about that later." The major's voice was dark with worry. "First, you've got to patch yourself up."

Carefully, Snake propped himself up on his good elbow. The large pain rocked his head and his backbone gave out an alarming cry. His stomach rolled alarmingly in his gut, and a fainting kind of nausea seized him. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to pass. After a while, it did.

When he opened his eyes, he looked around for something to craft a splint. A stick, a limb, anything. When he saw what lay a few feet away his breath caught in his throat.

A body was lying on the bank.

Not one of the men who had flung themselves off to escape the hornets; this one had been here longer. It was a skeleton, the skull turning to stare directly at Snake, the empty eye sockets somehow accusatory and at the same time sympathetic. Snake shuddered despite his agony. A drift of green rags were around the bones. They might once have been the remains of a uniform, military maybe. Snake wondered if maybe the soldier had suffered the same fate he had, only not being quite as lucky . . .

_I hope I don't end up like you, buddy_, Snake thought.

"Snake?" Para-Medic's voice was full of concern. "Snake, are you still with me?"

"Yeah." Snake turned away from the corpse and found a chunk of driftwood on the sand. He groped for it, picked it up. He clenched it between his teeth and braced his arm. He took a deep breath and snapped the elbow back into its socket. The arm flared up and he screamed, biting down hard on the stick against the agony. When it was done he fell back to the ground, wheezing for breath.

"We're coming to get you now," the major's voice said. It sounded far away. "Just stay where you are. We'll drop a recovery balloon."

Snake nodded despite nobody being around to see him. A sudden wind had picked up, a gust of rain-sodden wind that brought with it a sound. Many sounds. Helicopters.

Snake opened his eyes and saw them, high above him now, a squadron of gunships. They flew in formation, and he saw that most of them were carrying a cargo of something other than passengers. Something gigantic was chained to the bottom of them, and they were all hauling it in the sky, like great birds working together to carry away the largest of prey. Even through the dull fog of pain, Snake knew what it was.

_The Shagohod_.

. . .

The lead helicopter was not attached to the Shagohod, but nevertheless it had its own important cargo. The chopper was crowded, mainly because of Colonel Volgin's massive bulk. He stood hunched over on the edge of the deck, looking out at the mechanical titan Sokolov had designed. The other gunships could scarcely carry the thing, it was so vast. It was a thing of terrible beauty, Volgin thought, and even though he thought little of its pathetic creator, he had to give Sokolov due credit.

There were three others in the gunship's personnel bay as well. One was Ocelot, who had wandered out of the Rassvet area with a lump on his head and a sour look on his face. He'd faced off against the American and lost, something that rankled the youth and secretly pleased Volgin. Ocelot was too brash for his own good, and he needed to be knocked down a peg or two. Pity they'd had to dispose of the American; he'd have liked to have pitted him against Ocelot again for his own amusement.

The Boss was there as well. Unlike Ocelot, her face was a mask of stone. Yet there was a power about her, and Volgin felt an uncomfortable feeling course under his skin when her gaze fell on him. He tamped it down as best he could, grinning as he did, but he couldn't help but feel annoyed and unnerved by the feeling. Was it fear? He'd never known fear, not really, even as a boy. With his size and skill set, there was no use for it. But he'd never encountered anyone like this woman. Like the Shagohod, she possessed a terrible beauty.

Ocelot rose to his feet. His cold gaze fell on the fourth passenger in the helicopter. A young woman, barely older than he was, with flax-colored hair tied behind her head. She wore a stiff KGB officer's tunic and spectacles, which she pushed on the bridge of her nose mournfully. They'd found the woman in Sokolov's quarters when they captured the Shagohod and had spirited her away much as they had the machine he'd been building. Ocelot's brow furrowed. He'd been dealing with the American spy and had not been present, so he didn't understand why they'd even bothered to take the woman along.

The woman looked up, winced at Ocelot's slate-like stare. "What are we going to do with the girl?"

Volgin swiveled his head and looked at her, seemingly for the first time. "Who is she?"

Ocelot shrugged. "Apparently, she's Sokolov's woman."

Volgin reached over and cupped the girl's face in the palm of his massive hand. Her skin was like porcelain, a living china doll. He felt that if he so much as flexed his fingers, he'd crush the girl's skull to powder. "What is your name, girl?"

The girl stiffened at Volgin's gloved touch. "T-T-Tatyana," she stammered softly.

Volgin nodded, then idly sent a spark of electricity running between his fingers. The girl jerked back as the spark singed her cheek, not enough to scar but enough to smart. She placed a hand to her cheek and Volgin laughed. "She's a nice catch," he mused. "I'll take her."

Tatyana massaged her cheek while her other hand slipped in her pocket. She plucked it out, and Volgin's hand moved sharply, almost too fast to believe.

"Not so fast, my dear," he said as is sausage-like fingers closed around her forearm. "Let's see what you've got."

Her hand opened, dumping what she was holding into his open palm. He held it up, studied it. A small brass tube.

"Lipstick?" Ocelot muttered.

The girl flinched as Volgin shook his head, still grinning. "A kiss of death?"

He'd heard of such a weapon—a concealed one-shot firearm, disguised as a lipstick container. It was a special gadget designed by the KGB.

Ocelot seized the girl by the arm. "Are you KGB?" the youth hissed.

Volgin looked back at Tatyana, grinning despite the fact she'd just tried to kill him. "We might be able to use her. She has spunk."

He shoved the tube of lipstick back into her hands, hard enough to knock her to the metal deck of the helicopter. She picked herself up slowly, flinching as Ocelot shot her a withering glare.

"Shall we take her back to the base?" he asked.

Volgin shrugged. "Perhaps we should."

He turned back, looking out at the rolling expanse of wilderness. He saw the gleaming complex of buildings nestled there, a few miles away. OKB-seven-five-four, the design facility where Sokolov had been forced to design the terrible cargo the other helicopters were carrying now. It was little more than a small collection of domes and smokestacks, busily chugging away in the jungle wild.

"We have no further use for Sokolov's research facility," he mused aloud.

He bent over and opened one of the stainless-steel cases. It was padded inside with foam. Two conical shells, each a meter in length, were nestled in the foam. He took one out, balancing it on his massive palm as though it weighed as much as a football. He cracked open the other case and raised the launcher from its coffin. It was made of heavy gray tubular metal. He screwed the shell at the end of the huge canister and held it at his waist, his muscles bulging from the weapon's weight.

"I think it's time I gave this marvelous new toy a try," he declared.

Ocelot's eyes widened in sick realization. "Colonel!"

Volgin turned and looked at the youth, that grotesque sneer still on his gray face. "They are our enemies, Ocelot."

"Even so," Ocelot said in dismay, "they are still our countrymen!"

"But it won't be _me_ that pulled the trigger," Volgin told him simply. "It will be our friend, the American defector."

Ocelot turned and looked at The Boss. The woman just sat there, her face a mask of stone, her eyes betraying nothing she hadn't already betrayed. _Are you just going to sit there and let this happen? _he wanted to scream, but his throat had locked and the words died in his chest.

Volgin turned back and slowly and methodically raised the launcher. "Remember the Alamo," he muttered, and fired.

There was a burst of pale gas, and Ocelot saw a white streak shoot forward in the air towards the design facility. But for a moment, nothing seemed to happen.

_A dud_, he thought triumphantly, _it's a dud—_

Then, with a searing flash, a small sun came up on the horizon. It rose hot and yellow, blasting back the storm for just a moment.

"Cover your eyes, you fools!" The Boss bellowed, just loud enough to be heard. But neither Volgin nor Ocelot bothered to avert their gazes.

A brilliant ball of supernova fire plunged like a spectral blast, knotting itself into the chillingly familiar yet horrifying shape of a mushroom cloud. A smothering blanket of caustic fire engulfed the network of buildings, crushed them, subsuming everything in its blinding, somehow supernatural fire . . .

"_Do you see it?_" Volgin was cackling with insane glee. _"Do you see it?"_

_"Get us out of here!"_ Ocelot screamed at the helicopter pilot.

Growing brighter in the blaze of unleashed nuclear fire, the mushroom cloud rushed towards them with increasing fury, vaporizing jungle, turning foliage into dust, rock into lava . . .

With a whine, the rotors began to swing harder, and the helicopter banked sharply to avoid the rising blaze from Volgin's great sin.

. . .

His body was already starting to puff and swell in places, and long streaks of pain stabbed pins and needles all over his body. Snake clenched his teeth and rested his body back against the rock. He kept his eyes on the sky, waiting for the recovery balloon to be sent down.

"You're going to be all right, Snake," Para-Medic was saying, but her voice sounded hollow, tinny, a thousand miles away. "Just stay conscious and—"

The rest of what she said—and every sound in the world—suddenly vanished in a great thundering roar that consumed everything around him. The world had suddenly begun to glow white-hot, a throbbing brightness that hurt his eyes. He screamed with pain and fear, his cracked voice shattering in the thunder. The light around him grew brighter and _brighter, _seeming to emanate from the high bluffs, a searing harsh glare that filled the air.

Reaching a critical point.

Snake held up his one good hand to shield his face from it. It sounded like the world cracking open, and through his fingers he could see the source of the heat and fire. Downriver, miles away and yet still dangerously close, the mushroom cloud rose like the Old Faithful geyser in Yellowstone—only a million times bigger—in an incandescent plume that towered like an awesome thunderhead heralding Armageddon . . .

Several hours later, after it was all over and the air had grown calm again, the recovery balloon dropped from the heavens. He grabbed for it, realized he was already losing feeling, already feeling slower and stupider. His hand moved; he wasn't sure how or why. Everything was washing out, going gray.

He started to rise.

He held fast to something. Something. He rose toward the light, that was his only thought, to join the light, to reach the light, to be one with the light, the light, the light . . .

The light.

The images confused him. His body clanging on the metal, inside the plane. His knee bleeding on the metal, the drops of blood spattering. A woman's shaking hands reaching for him. Para-Medic's voice in his ear. Drowned out somehow. Lights in his eyes. A terrible pain all over. Shapes. Rust very close to his face, a sharp edge of metal. Cold metal. Cold air. Lights in his eyes, dimming. That raging roar in his eyes. Like a whirlwind of vengeful whispers. Fading. Fading.

Blackness.


	7. And Now This Word from Washington

**BOOK II:**

**OPERATION SNAKE EATER**

* * *

Peace is a journey of a thousand miles

and it must be taken one step at a time.

_— Lyndon B. Johnson_

_The pump don't work_

_'Cause the vandals took the handle._

_—Bob Dylan_

* * *

**AND NOW THIS WORD FROM WASHINGTON**

The man in charge had been expecting the red phone to ring, but he still wasn't sure what he was going to say.

He sat behind the desk, his big hands tucked against his belly. He was a tall man, taller than most who had held his position before him. The shelf of his brow was creased in deep worry, and his aggressive jaw was set. He felt like bellowing with rage, but he had to keep cool. If he did not, things were apt to get very, very hot.

He was used to giving orders, had been doing so all of his life, but very rarely had he ever felt anxiety. It was an uncommon feeling, but now it seemed to be leaking out of his every pore. He had not been sitting behind this desk for long, not even a full year. The man who had sat there before had been in a similar situation, and he had managed to defuse it. He'd often wondered how he would have handled it, or if he would have fumbled the ball and blown the whole game.

Things looked bad from where he sat. The Virtuous Mission had failed. The most powerful warrior in the West had gone over the Iron Curtain. A Soviet research facility had been obliterated by a nuclear explosion. And all signs pointed to American involvement. It was Cuba all over again, except this time he didn't know if he'd be able to—

The crisp buzz of the hotline cut through his thoughts cleanly. _Well, time to pay the piper,_ he thought, and he picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" His accent, the slow drawl of the South, trembled a little.

"President Johnson?"

He recognized the voice on the other end immediately. The heavy accent, the carefully measured words. Johnson hadn't met Nikita Khrushchev in person, but there was no way it was anyone else on the other end of the line.

Johnson steeled himself for the questions he knew were coming. "Yes, I hear you, Mr. Chairman."

"You knew I was calling." _Was that accusation in his voice?_

"What can I do for you, Mr. Chairman?"

There was a pause. Then: "A few days ago, one of our country's main Design Bureaus, OKB-seven-five-four, was destroyed in a nuclear explosion. At about the same time, our anti-aircraft radar picked up a signature that appeared to come from one of your military aircraft. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

Johnson said nothing.

Khrushchev kept talking. "In retaliation, I have placed our armed forces on secondary alert. Depending on your response, I may be left with no choice but to order the military to maximum alert and unleash Armageddon." He paused, letting his words hang in the air before continuing. "With the help of your predecessor, I was able to survive the Cuban incident. But my power . . . it is not as great as it once was. If I am to survive _this_ crisis, I must have your full cooperation."

Johnson leaned back in his chair. Sweat prickled his brow. "I should have contacted you myself," he said slowly, apologetically. "Did you know that one of our soldiers defected to your country a week ago."

A pause. Then: "No."

"So, you haven't heard then?"

Silence on the line.

Johnson took a deep breath. "From what we can gather, the man who arranged the defection was a GRU colonel by the name of Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin."

"Volgin?" Khrushchev repeated under his breath. "Of the Brezhnev faction?" He seemed to ruminate on this for a moment. "Go on. Who was this soldier?"

Johnson sighed. "A woman," he said. "A living legend. During World War II, she was the one who helped lead the Allies to victory. In Russia, you know her as 'Voyevoda.'"

"The warlord?" Then it dawned on Khrushchev, and his voice became hushed. "You mean . . . _The Boss?_ The mother of your Special Forces?"

"Yes, that's the one," Johnson admitted. "And she took two miniature nuclear shells along with her."

"The Boss took _two _miniature nuclear shells?" Khrushchev sounded aghast.

Johnson nodded. "I'm afraid so. I believe they were a gift for her new hosts." He leaned forward in his chair. "The 'Davy Crockett' Atomic Battle Group Delivery System was completed two years ago. But serious problems were found with the launcher's range and precision. Although they were mass-produced, they've never been deployed in battle."

"But Sokolov's research facility was completely wiped out!" Khrushchev's voice rose, sounding almost hysterical. "The whole area is polluted!"

"I can only offer you my deepest condolences over this terrible tragedy," Johnson replied.

There was silence on the line, but Johnson could almost hear the gears turning in the Premier's head. When Khrushchev spoke again, his voice was softer. "So The Boss, with Colonel Volgin's help, stole two experimental nuclear shells and took them with her as a gift when she defected. Then, shortly thereafter, Sokolov's design lab—a top-secret military research facility—was destroyed by one of these weapons. Am I right so far?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And the American government denies any involvement in the affair," Khrushchev went on. "Is that right as well?"

"That's correct." Johnson blotted his forehead with his tie. "We were not involved in any way."

Then Khrushchev pounced. "_Then what was a US military aircraft doing on our radar screen?" _he snapped. "_It was clearly in violation of our airspace!_ And yet," he added coolly, "you say it was _not_ acting under your orders."

"That's correct," Johnson said again.

"You expect me to believe that this was all the work of a single soldier?"

"I don't know what else to tell you."

Khrushchev grunted. "The army insists that this is all a ploy on your part, Mr. President."

Despite the sweating anxiety, Johnson felt that hot anger bubbling in his chest. "I've said it once, and I'll say it again," he said, his voice rising. "Our government had nothing to do with it."

"And I would like dearly to believe you," the voice on the line said. "However, I'm afraid my power over the military has . . . _weakened_ since the Cuban incident. I will need some kind of proof that this was not the action of the American government."

"I'm listening."

Khrushchev's voice was low, deadly serious. "You have one week," he said. "You must catch The Boss yourselves and recover the remaining nuclear device. Then, you must find some way to prove your innocence."

"Prove our innocence?"

"Yes." Now the Premier's voice took on another timbre. Johnson felt like a mouse that had been caught by the cat. "Preferably with something . . . painful. Prove to me that this is not merely another one of your tricks."

Johnson mulled it over. "The Boss should be close to Colonel Volgin," he pointed out. "How about a little coaction?"

Khrushchev sighed. "I would not expect too much if I were you," he said. "The political situation here is, you might say, unstable. And Colonel Volgin is a member of the Brezhnev faction, which seeks to topple my government.

"One week," he reminded. "You have only _one_ week. And if it is not too much to ask, do something about Volgin as well."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Johnson asked.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Then Khrushchev spoke again. "Nothing," he said slowly. "It means nothing. Call it a modest gentleman's agreement to ensure our continued relationship."

Johnson felt he had to ask the question that was gnawing at him. "What if we can't prove our innocence?"

"Then I will be unable to restrain the military," Khrushchev said. "I will be ousted, and they will seek their revenge."

Johnson knew what that meant all too well. It was what everyone dreaded, in their heart of hearts. Nevertheless, he felt he had to say it. "A nuclear attack on the United States."

Khrushchev didn't answer yes or no. Instead, he brusquely stated, "I leave the disposal of this situation entirely to your discretion, Mr. President."

"Disposal, huh?"

"If you fail," the Premier said softly, "it will mean the beginning of a new world war."

There was a click, then dead air.

Johnson lowered the phone. There was no choice in the matter now.

He thought for a moment, then reached for a different phone. He didn't know if it would work, considering the failure of the Virtuous Mission, but it felt like he didn't have a whole lot of options left.


	8. The Briefing

**THE BRIEFING**

* * *

Hot spray poured over him, and he breathed in steam.

Standing in the shower, the man who had shed his old name like his new namesake shed its skin looked down at his body. _I look like I just survived a plane crash._

The lumps on his head throbbed. His chest was scraped raw in a great swath down to his abdomen. Scrapes and bruises covered his shoulders. His left thigh was purple-red. His right hand was swollen and painful.

But then, _everything_ was painful. He groaned, turning his face up to the water.

"Hey," the MP called. "Hurry up in there."

Snake grunted, and stepped out. The MP stood in the door, rifle lowered but his finger still on the trigger. Snake toweled off, and as he finished dressing, he winced as the MP prodded him toward the bed.

"Watch it, will you?" he grunted.

The MP said nothing.

Snake sat slowly on his bunk, feeling pain streak up his spine. _Probably do better just to shoot me_, he thought sourly, as the MP snapped the cuff over his wrist. He winced, and gingerly lay back on the bed.

He'd been strapped to this hospital bed for over a week, with tubes and wires running out of his body. He'd been half-dead when they'd hauled him out of Tselinoyarsk, and what he remembered-what he _could_ remember-of the intervening time between then and now were only flashes, drug-soaked flickers of doctors busily working over him, machines chattering and beeping, of men in dark suits watching stoically from the corner.

He remembered the questions afterward, though. He remembered them well. Those same men had started in on him practically right after the doctors had walked out. Questions, accusations. About The Boss. About her betrayal. About the Davy Crocketts she had stolen. And whether a certain apprentice of hers had been complicit in her treason. They were merciless, and every time he denied any prior knowledge of what The Boss had done, they had accused him openly, directly, threatening him with the firing squad.

When they finally left him alone in this sequestered hospital room that was little more than a glorified jail cell, with an MP on guard at every second of the day, he was left with questions of his own and no one to answer them. The Boss . . . how could she, the greatest soldier in America's ranks, defect? Why would she even _want_ to? And what would happen to her now? These questions cycled through his mind in a mad loop, and he didn't even hear the door open until he saw a man standing over him.

He turned his head. At first, he thought it was more of those CIA spooks with their hard-edged questions . . . or a bullet to put in his head. He didn't expect the steel-haired man in the black bomber jacket.

"Hello, Jack," Major Zero-or Major Tom, rather-said, closing the door behind him.

"Major . . ." Snake sat up in the bed and winced at the pain coursing through his body. His torso was a map of bruises and scars.

Major Tom looked him over. "So, how does it feel to be a patient in one of the most advanced ICUs in the world?"

Snake grunted. "Would you do me a favor and tell the suits about visiting hours? I'll never get better with them assaulting me day and night with their questions."

Major Tom shrugged. "Must be part of the top brass's inquiry."

"Inquiry, hell. More like an interrogation." Snake jerked the cuff that still chained him to the hospital bed. "According to them, I'm a traitor and an accomplice to The Boss's defection."

"They're just looking for a scapegoat."

Snake squinted at the man. "Does that mean they're after you, too?"

Major Tom sighed. "Let's just say neither one of us is going to be made a national hero out of this."

Snake rubbed his jaw. "Does this mean FOX is going to die?"

"No," Major Tom said sharply. "This fox is still one step ahead of the hounds."

"So why'd you want to see me?"

Major Tom walked over, and Snake saw he was holding a small key. He fit it in the cuff's lock, and snapped it open. Snake rubbed his sore wrist as the major reached for one of the chairs against the wall, set it in front of Snake, and sat down. "Jack, it's time to FOX to clear its name."

Snake blinked at the man in the crisp suit. "What are you talking about?"

"The situation has changed," the major said curtly. "We've still got a chance to come out of this one alive."

"Yeah?" Snake leaned forward. "What kind of chance?"

"Don't get too excited." Major Tom reached into his jacket and fished out a cigar, still wrapped in cellophane. He unwrapped it and handed it to Snake. "Here, have a cigar. It's Cuban."

Snake reached into his bedside table and summoned his Zippo. He touched the flame to the cigar and took a long, slow drag of smoke. It cooled his nerves, which had been on the fritz ever since the Virtuous Mission fell on its ass.

The major leaned forward. "This morning, I had a meeting with the CIA."

"Yeah?" Snake puffed on his cigar. "They decide when they're going to execute us?"

"No. Something even bigger."

Snake's brow furrowed. "Bigger?"

"Yes. Yesterday, the White House received an unexpected call."

He told Snake about the hotline call the President had received from the Soviet premier. He laid out what the CIA had told him, in no uncertain terms: _We let you live. You owe us. Now whack The Boss. You fuck up, nukes will fly._ Snake listened to the major, his eyes lowered, taking in every word while remembering the way The Boss had looked to him, in those last few moments before she had tossed him into the river.

"To put it simply," Major Tom finished, "in order to avoid a full-scale nuclear conflict, we have to prove that America was not involved in that explosion."

Snake blew a long jet of hot smoke and stared at the major. "And eliminating The Boss ourselves will prove America's innocence?"

"Right." Major Tom nodded. "The higher-ups have decided that you're the only one capable of pulling this off. You were her last apprentice."

He rose to his feet. "Screw this one up, Jack, and we'll both be six feet under. There's no choice."

Snake grunted. His arms still felt sore, even though the docs had shot him full of morphine. He couldn't believe that, just a week after being flung off a rope bridge over a hundred feet into a roaring river, then nearly drowning in said river before washing up more than a mile downstream, then managing to survive getting fried in a nuclear blast, the brass wanted him going back to Russia. _No way it's cheaper than just lining me up against a wall,_ he thought sourly.

"What about the Russians?" he asked finally. "Are they gonna be helping us?"

"The KGB has promised to lend us one of their communications satellites so that you can I can talk to each other," Major Tom said.

Snake waited for more, but when he realized none was coming, he said, "That's _it?"_

"They've also put us in touch with a couple of insiders."

"Insiders?"

"Yes." Major Tom crossed his arms over his chest. "There was a defection in September 1960. Do you remember it?"

Snake drew in a long drag of smoke, thinking. He had heard something about that, it seemed. It took him a moment to pinpoint it. "You mean the two NSA code-breakers who went over to the Soviet Union?"

"Precisely. Since then, they've apparently been training with the KGB for exactly this type of situation. Their code-names are 'ADAM' and 'EVA.' I've been told that ADAM has infiltrated Volgin's ranks."

_ADAM and EVA, huh?_

"We've also arranged for him to provide you with an escape route," the major said. "You'll need to rendezvous with him when you get there."

"So what do I do?"

"Rescue Sokolov, same as before. Find out what's happened to the Shagohod. Then destroy it." Major Tom hesitated, then finished. "And eliminate The Boss."

Snake felt a sick feeling in his gut. "Eliminate The Boss," he repeated.

"This mission will be code-named 'Operation: Snake Eater,'" the major said.

"Because I'll be taking on The Boss and her Cobra unit, right?"

"Don't forget about Colonel Volgin," Major Tom warned.

Snake shook his head. "I'm not a hired killer."

"I know. But that was the Kremlin's demand."

"Demand?" Snake raised an eyebrow. "You mean, it wasn't just a request? What's it to us if the Khrushchev regime is threatened by the colonel and his faction?"

Major Tom sighed. "If supporting the current regime helps avoid a nuclear exchange, then that's what we'll do."

"And what about the CIA?" Snake wanted to know. "What are their demands?"

"Our priorities are the rescue of Sokolov and the destruction of the Shagohod," Major Tom said.

"Major?" Snake took a deep breath, winced at the pain in his chest and in his mind. "_Why_ did The Boss defect?"

The major shook his head. "I don't know." He lowered his voice. "But I will tell you this: America is all too eager to get rid of her."

"What do you mean?"

"She knows too many of our secrets. If she were to relay all the top-secret information she knows to the Soviet bloc, it would put us at a severe disadvantage. It might even lead to the downfall of the West. Even if we survive, The Boss is still too much of a hero to us. With her in the Soviet camp, we'd suffer a fatal loss of morale at home. There are even whispers that some of the, uh, less stalwart elements of the military might follow her example and defect themselves." He blinked repeatedly. "I assume you're aware that since your last mission, several key figures within the CIA have been placed under house arrest."

Snake nodded. The suits had alluded to that in the course of their harsh inquest.

"The loss of The Boss has been a painful one indeed," the major said mournfully.

"And you?" Snake narrowed his eyes. "What do _you _believe?"

"Me?" The major pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. "I still can't believe it," he admitted. "As a comrade, I would have placed my trust in her before my own family, my own flesh and blood. But now that I think about it . . . The Boss always seemed to have an aura of mystery about her. I never would have expected to to manifest in this way, though."

Snake gave him a look, and the major steeled himself.

"Ah well. It won't do to get all misty-eyed about it. She's an enemy now, Jack, one worthy of nothing more than our contempt. Do you understand?"

Snake mock-saluted. "Roger that, Major Tom."

"Hold on, Snake."

Snake hesitated. "What now?"

"I'm changing my code name," the major said. "It turns out 'Tom' wasn't the most auspicious choice."

Snake was confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the truth is," Major Tom wheedled, "when I chose my code-name . . . I picked the wrong one."

"The wrong one?"

"Did you ever see that movie _The Great Escape?" _the major asked. "It came out last year."

"Must've missed that one," Snake muttered. He didn't have much time for the picture shows, not with all the wet-work the CIA kept dumping in his lap.

"Anyway," the major went on, "it's based on a true story about prisoners who escaped from a POW camp in Nazi Germany. The prisoners dig three tunnels as part of their plan. But the Nazis find two of the tunnels before they're finished. The prisoners succeeded in escaping by using the last remaining tunnel. The names of those three tunnels were Dick, Harry, and Tom."

Snake nodded. "I get it. You used the name of the tunnel they escaped in as your code-name, because you thought it would bring you good luck."

The major nodded. "Yes. That's exactly right." Then he sighed. "At least, that was the plan."

"_But?_"

"But I got the name wrong. The one they escaped in was Harry. Tom was one of the unlucky tunnels, discovered by the Nazis before it was finished. I watched the movie again just to make sure. In fact, I even ordered the actual film from the movie company."

"Yeah, it doesn't sound like the greatest name to use," Snake had to admit. "So what should I call you instead?"

The major tapped his chin. "You know, let's just use Zero, like we've been doing all along."

"All right then," Snake said, rising from the bed. "Major Zero it is. We'll start over from square one."

"From square zero," the older man corrected.

Snake took a long puff, exhaled smoke. "So when do we leave?"

As it turned out, Snake would be on a plane five hours later.


	9. Operation: Snake Eater

**OPERATION: SNAKE EATER.**

* * *

11:38 p.m.

August 30, 1964

Arctic Ocean Airspace

* * *

The mighty black bird had risen to the top of the world, and now it prepared to swoop on its prey.

The bird was a Lockheed M-21 aircraft, a variant of the A-12 "Blackbird." The M-21 was one of the fastest planes in existence, a top-secret supersonic craft that could have come from a science-fiction film. It blasted through the ionosphere at two times the speed of sound, nearly six miles above the curve of the Earth.

The M-21 was pregnant with a payload: a smaller, sleeker craft that clung to the craft's rear top fuselage. It was in this cylindrical capsule that the last hope for averting a nuclear holocaust was waiting.

"We can't risk a HALO jump this time around," Zero had told him. "Airspace Security has gotten tighter since we were last here. We can't get as close to the ground as we did during the Virtuous Mission."

Snake grunted. It hadn't been _that_ close, if he remembered correctly.

"So instead, we'll be using one of our newest weapons."

That weapon, it turned out, was a Lockheed D-21 reconnaissance drone, mounted on the back of the M-21. Zero filled him in on the details of the vehicle: it was a long-range drone, designed two years earlier. A sleek missile-shaped craft with a titanium frame, the drone was built for a one-way trip. Zero told him that the D-21 would carry him over a programmed flight path, then jettison him just before the craft impacted into the jungle.

Now wedged in the drone's capsule, Snake felt like he'd been crammed in a coffin.

The drone was powered by a Marquardt ramjet, which Zero had informed him would blast the craft at Mach Three or better. Snake had taken part in supersonic tests before, but it always turned his stomach to think about it. And he couldn't help but think of the drone was an oversized bullet, about to be blasted at the heart of the Soviet stronghold.

Snake was also acutely aware that this wasn't the first time a spy plane had gone over Soviet soil. He remembered all too well the horror stories of the U-2 incident in 1960, when Francis Gary Powers was shot down and taken prisoner. Snake doubted he'd be as lucky as Powers if he was captured.

His rucksack tucked against his chest and his codec once again activated, Snake waited, doing his best to tamp down his nerves. Anxiety mixed with anticipation. The long wait was always the hardest part.

"Altitude thirty thousand feet," he heard the M-21's pilot say through the codec. "Approaching Soviet airspace."

Snake closed his eyes, thinking of the last time he'd heard those words. His mind kept drifting to the horrific images of the previous week: The Boss's betrayal, the long fall into the Dolinovodno canyon, the searing hellfire of the nuclear blast that had erased Sokolov's research facility from existence. He listened to the low thrum of the drone, wondering if, in the course of his mission, he would get the answers he sought.

"Arriving at the designated drone launch point," the pilot's voice reported. "Drone oil pressure and voltage are nominal. Payload oxygen supply is nominal. Power supply to payload antifreeze system shows no problems. No gusts. All systems go for drone detachment."

_Here we go_. Snake's grasp tightened on his rucksack, and he winced at the pain still shooting through his arm.

"You're being given an honor on par with Alan Shepard," Zero had told him. "This is our last chance. Show your patriotism. And if you fail, you'll be back in a hospital bed again, waiting for the firing squad." Yet, now, all the major's meticulous plans and precise monitoring could not allay the soldier's anxiety.

The thrum suddenly roared into a high whine as the drone's ramjet kicked into gear. _Primed to fire, _Snake thought, tensing his body. Any minute now, the M-21 would bank and then he would be launched like the proverbial bullet from the barrel of-

He felt a sudden lurch forward and a loud, rattling explosion, and for a frozen moment he thought the ramjet had blown apart and that he was dead. Then when he heard the pilot's voice declare the drone was clear, he cursed his nerves and waited until the moment when the pod carrying him ejected itself from the drone.

The drone suddenly lurched again, and Snake heard an excited chatter and whine through his codec-and the hairs on his neck stiffened when he realized the voice was Russian. "Control unidentified aircraft detected. Altitude thirty thousand feet. It's fast, whatever it is. Estimated airspeed exceeding Mach Three."

_What the hell is going on?_ Except Snake knew: the Russians had spotted them. But was it Khrushchev's men, or the ones Volgin commanded? He had no way of knowing, no way of-

His thoughts were cut off when the capsule suddenly detached, breaking away from the drone as it hurtled into the darkness over the Russian wilderness. A moment later, the capsule broke open and Snake was ejected bodily from the pod. When he did, the static line tore the backpack cover from his parachute and the chute broke free, a twenty-foot canopy unfurling over him as he plunged through cold night air. Snake saw the capsule crash into the treetops below, and a moment later he saw flames and smoke billow.

_That's sure to bring the cavalry_, he thought sourly.

He pulled on the webbed risers secured to his chute's harness, guiding it towards the wreckage of the drone. He brought his chin down, elbows in, knees bent, prepared to collapse and roll sideways into the impact. He hoped that he made an easier landing than the Virtuous Mission.

He was lucky; the drone had slammed to earth in a clearing and Snake touched down nearby, running around his chute to collapse it, cutting away his harness and rolling the chute to stow it hurriedly. Except he realized, scanning the clearing, that he hadn't landed where they'd planned. Great.

He stuffed the chute underneath a nearby log and radioed the major. "This is Snake. Do you read?"

The codec squealed, then Zero's clipped British tone: "Loud and clear. Glad to see you landed safely."

"I got blown off target," Snake said, glancing around the area he'd landed in. It looked vaguely familiar, even though the jungle seemed to bleed into the darkness around him.

"How far?"

Snake squinted, and he realized that the clearing that he'd touched down in was one he'd passed through on his way to Rassvet. He'd been more lucky than expected, it seemed. "Maybe a mile or so."

"Good. Our radar had picked up two Russian jets in the area, Snake. They spotted you and tried to give chase, but they lost you."

"Yeah, I caught a bit of cross-chatter," he muttered. "I think they took a couple shots at me."

"We were worried the pod would be damaged before you landed."

"It's pretty damaged now," Snake said, glancing over at the smoking wreck of the drone across the glen. "What should I do with it?"

"Just leave it there."

Snake was surprised. The drone was top-secret military property, something the Soviets would have loved to have gotten a hold of. "Are you sure? Isn't this thing top-secret?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because," Zero explained, "the purpose of Operation Snake Eater is to send an American agent into the field in order to eliminate a defector and traitor-namely, The Boss. Part of that mission involves making sure the Soviets find out what we're doing."

"So we have to leave behind some kind of evidence that the U.S. was involved," Snake said.

"Don't worry," Zero assured. "The technologically-sensitive components of the craft were rigged to self-destruct when it landed. The only thing the Soviets are going to find is a pile of American-made scrap metal."

"Got it."

"In any case, we're glad you made it safely."

"We?"

"Para-Medic is with us again on this mission."

"Para-Medic?" Snake's brow furrowed. "Is this her last chance, too?"

"If we fail," Zero said, "she'll have her medical license revoked. It's more or less the same kind of fate. Her frequency is the same as during the Virtuous Mission." He paused, then went on. "And there's one more person on your support team."

"Oh?"

"His name is Mr. Sigint," Zero explained. "He's an expert in weapons and equipment technology. You'll be going up against the world's most advanced weaponry when you infiltrate the research facility. If you have any questions, just ask him. His frequency is 148.41."

"Mr. Sigint. Got it." _It's turning into a regular circus here_.

"Adam, your KGB contact, is waiting for you at the abandoned factory up ahead."

Snake's brow furrowed. "The same factory Sokolov was being held in last week?"

"Yes," Zero answered. "Meet up with Adam first. He's cleared the way for you to rescue Sokolov."

"How will I know this 'Adam' guy when I see him?"

"You'll know once you reach the factory," Zero replied. "The whole area's been polluted by the fallout from that nuclear blast. No one else would dare come close."

Snake felt a tinge of horror. "Fallout?"

"Relax, Snake. You won't be in the area long enough to suffer any ill effects."

Relief and doubt seemed to wage a fierce battle over his nerves. Snake closed his eyes and quelled the distress as best he could. "All right," he said, trying to sound like he was in control.

"When you see Adam, give him the password. Are you listening?"

"Loud and clear."

"The password is 'Who are the Patriots?' The response is 'La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo.'"

"La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo," Snake repeated. "Gotcha."

"Be careful with that .45, too," Zero cautioned. "It's noisy."

Snake's brow furrowed. "I was meaning to ask you about that," he said. "I thought standard FOX procedure was procure-on-site weapons acquisition."

"The circumstances are different this time," Zero said. "You're now on an official mission for the United States government."

_Yeah,_ Snake thought sourly. _A goddamn assassination mission._

"It will be necessary to make your presence known to a certain extent," the major continued. "At the very least, to the Khrushchev regime. But remember: this is still a sneaking mission."

Snake drew a deep breath and the .45 at the same time.

"I know you know this already," Zero said somberly, "but I feel I must reiterate it. Snake, if you fail this mission, it will mean an all-out nuclear war. Keep that in mind and proceed with extreme caution."

"Understood," Snake said with a firm nod. He checked the Colt's clip, then slammed it back home with the heel of his hand. "Commencing Operation Snake Eater."


	10. Across the Border

**Dremuchij East**

**Mission Time: Day 1**

**0035 Hours**

The jungle at night held a thousand shadows, a thousand noises, a thousand threats . . .

The big silvery coin of the moon cast its watery light like rain, barely penetrating the clenched fists of branches above. Snake felt as if he'd been transported into another universe, all alone.

He stopped to get his bearings. He could make out the stars, but was barely able to discern the trampled path through the underbrush. Even without the path, though, he knew his way back to the Rassvet ruins. His unerring sense of direction was an innate skill, one he'd already honed before he'd crossed paths with The Boss.

Thornbushes snatched at his sleeves like desperate beggars, holding him back as he trudged onward. He sourly wished he'd had a machete to hack them away.

He stopped and looked back at the drone, saw the flash of glass from the canopy in the night-he hoped that none of the Russian soldiers surely patrolling the area would stumble across it. When he turned away from it again, he found himself faced with the darkness again. He stared into the shadows, listening to the buzz of insects, the symphony of night birds, the dance of predator and prey-

His thoughts broke with the silence when he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse's snort.

He turned sharply and saw it standing there, like a ghost in the gloom. It was a white Andalusian stallion, a spry sort of breed known for its beauty and its outstanding capacity for riding. It was saddled, tied to a gnarled stump of a tree that had been blown apart long ago by what was probably lightning.

_What the hell is a horse doing out here?_ Snake wondered, as the stallion blew loudly through his nostrils again, stomping from side to side as if afraid of the intruder. The stallion tossed its head as Snake crept closer, sniffing and snorting.

Snake doubted that any of the Spetsnaz soldiers that patrolled the area did it on horseback, and if they did, it wasn't on a specimen this magnificent. Still, it belonged to someone and-

"Looks like death wasn't ready for you yet."

Snake spun around, his heart beating fast at the familiar voice. He drew his pistol, purely on reflex, trained it on the darkness behind him. And there she stood, a moonlit shadow amongst the darkness, scrutinizing her former protege with that same icy, disdainful gaze.

"Boss?"

She stepped out of the shadows, cloak billowing from behind her like a cape. Snake stepped back warily, then winced as a flicker of pain from his bad arm crossed his face.

She nodded toward the gun he was trying hard to keep steady. "That arm still hurt?"

Snake felt that unease creep further over him. "What are you doing h-?"

The Boss suddenly tore at her cloak, ripping it away to reveal the sleek white form-fitting suit she'd been wearing when he'd last encountered her. He barely had time to register this before she lunged forward, quick as a cat springing on a dazed mouse. Before he could blink back his surprise enough to speak, the woman planted the heel of her hand against his chest, driving him back into the night. Her other hand found his wrist, pinched it, twisted it back. She then wrenched the .45 from his grasp like she would a child's toy. Then she drove him to the ground with a swift, paralyzing kick in the thigh.

"Go home!" The Boss growled.

Horrified, he watched as The Boss dismantled the pistol, breaking it apart and tossing the remains into the night. He picked himself up and reached out to defend himself as she sent a vicious judo-chop into his collarbone, sending him wheezing to the ground.

"Go home!" she repeated.

"Boss . . ." Snake croaked.

The Boss looked away furtively. "GRU and my sons are waiting up ahead," she said. "You don't have a prayer of finishing your mission. You're not even armed."

Snake climbed uneasily to his feet, fighting dizziness as he stood. "Boss . . . Boss, please . . ."

The Boss whirled swiftly and charged toward him, driving a boot into his belly and knocking the wind out of him once again. She then seized him and flung him to the ground again, the same way he'd taken down the Ocelot commander. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He lay there, stunned, unable to move.

The Boss sighed, shaking her head slightly as she reached behind her back. "I'm not your Boss anymore. There's nothing for you here. So go home. Go back to your new boss."

Her hand came from behind her back, revealing a gleaming machine-gun. The barrel was sawed to the quick and the stock had been removed, and it had a dual drum magazine bulging from the bottom. Snake recognized the weapon instantly. It was the Patriot carbine, a modified Colt assault rifle The Boss herself had adjusted to her own design.

"There's no need to prove that you are virtuous here," she said. "This isn't America."

She jerked up the Patriot in one single, fluid motion and opened fire. The burst from the barrel was blinding, and the night filled with a thunderous chatter like an angered rattlesnake. Snake cringed as a deafening roar sounded behind him. The Boss's bullets had torn into the fuselage of his landing pod, blowing the drone apart in a brilliant explosion of flame.

The Boss lowered the Patriot as the explosion echoed around the jungle like distant surf. She nodded to herself. "That should stir things up a bit." She looked down at the man slowly trying to pick himself off the ground. "You'd better hurry."

As if on cue, the rain began to come down in a gentle drizzle, warm and oddly oily. Rivulets trickled and pattered like streams from above. The wet air seemed ready to burst with its newly released lush scents.

The Boss flashed a look at Snake. "The border is sixty miles south of here," she said, turning to walk away. "You ought to be able to run that far."

"Why'd you defect?" Snake coughed.

She turned back to look at him. For the briefest instant, Snake thought he saw something moving over her shoulder, a silver shimmer in the rain, like a face. But it was gone, and only The Boss stood there.

"I didn't," she said. "I'm loyal . . . to the end. To my purpose." She walked over to the horse, which still stood tethered to the tree, unfazed by the rain, the sudden gunfire, and the crackling, smoldering wreckage. "What about you, Jack? What's it going to be? Loyalty to your country, or loyalty to me? Your country, or your mentor? Your mission, or your beliefs? Your duty to your unit? Or your personal feelings?"

Snake tried to speak, but no words would struggle out. With a sigh he slipped back to the ground.

The Boss untied the stallion and mounted up. The Andalusian snorted as its mistress looked back to her former apprentice. "You don't know the truth yet," she said. "But sooner or later, you'll have to choose." Rain spilled down her face, but Snake wondered if there was more than a single tear there. "I don't expect you to forgive me. But you can't defeat me, either. You know me too well."

She jerked her chin towards the relic Snake had snatched from her during their last encounter. "Just look at that bandanna," she contemplated. "If you can't put the past behind you, you won't survive long."

She sighed and then turned away, wheeling the horse towards the darkness of the jungle. She paused, droplets of rain standing out on her face, then said, "If we meet again, I'll kill you."

With all his might, Snake rose to his feet and lunged for her, but the Andalusian reared back, neighing loudly as one of its hooves whistled through the air right by Snake's head. Surprised, he staggered back and slipped, landing hard on the muddy earth.

As he lay groaning, The Boss said her final word on the matter. "Now go home!"

The Andalusian broke into a trot that gradually gave way to an all-out gallop as the energetic horse stretched his muscles, pounding across the mud as it disappeared into the darkness.

Snake closed his eyes and wiped the spatters of rain from his face. He picked himself off the ground ahead and checked for any wounds, old or new. It seemed he'd been lucky; The Boss hadn't snapped any ribs or dislocated any joints. Relieved, he put a hand to his ear and felt the familiar squelch of the codec as he radioed the home frequency.

"Do you read me, Major Zero?"

"I read you, Snake," the major's voice replied promptly.

"I was ambushed by The Boss."

"You were _what?_"

Snake glanced back at the flaming wreckage of the D-21, where the fire still crackled and popped in the rain. "The drone's been shot to hell," he reported. "It's up in flames."

Zero seemed too much in shock to respond immediately. "That's not good," he said at last. "Enemy scouts are going to come looking for you."

Snake nodded, knowing full well that if they hadn't heard the initial gunplay or the explosion, they had to be able to see the flames. "But what was The Boss doing here in the first place?" His brow darkened. "There's got to be a leak somewhere-"

"That's impossible," Zero quickly interrupted him. "The man you saw with The Boss-Colonel Volgin-isn't exactly on speaking terms with Khrushchev."

Snake sighed and agreed. The major had a good point, but still, he didn't believe in coincidences. The Boss had taught him that. "I lost my gun. The Boss destroyed it."

"I know how you're feeling, Snake," Zero said. "It's hard for me to believe, too-that a legendary hero like The Boss would go over to the Russians, that she'd double-cross us like this. But that's how it is. And if you don't accept it, you'll never be able to beat her."

Snake shook his head and looked aimlessly around the encroaching forest. "That's not the problem. In terms of sheer technique, I'll _never_ be able to beat her. I know that all too well."

"You've _got_ to do it, Snake," the major said vehemently. "She's your enemy and your objective."

"_Enemy?_" Snake frowned. "We were together for ten years. And now you tell me she's my enemy? I-"

"Enough!" Now the major sounded annoyed. "You need to hurry to the factory where ADAM is waiting. Scouts have probably already been sent out to investigate the explosion. You've lost your weapon, right? That means you've got no chance of winning in a battle situation. Whatever you do, don't let them see you."

Snake grunted and switched off the codec. He could already hear rustling in the distance, rustling that sounded much too steady to be anything but human footsteps. Squatting there, he drew his knife from his boot. If he was lucky, he could slip through the jungle unnoticed. If he wasn't . . .

A branch cracked somewhere to his left. Something was definitely moving unseen towards him. Leaves whispered together . . . or so Snake thought. But a moment later, he could make out hushed voices.

Time to get moving.

Snake plowed into the jungle, careful to remain light on his feet, mindful of the voices as they receded behind him. Any moment now they would stumble across the burning wreck of the drone and radio for backup.

Snake splashed across a narrow stream, marking it in his mental map of the area, knowing indisputably where he was. The Dolinovodno canyon lay just up ahead, as was the bridge where The Boss had turned her back on him and her country.

Speaking of The Boss, he couldn't shake the question of her presence in the jungle in the first place. Had Volgin detected his infiltration?

In a thicket of shrubs on the bank of the stream, the underbrush rustled. Something heavy splashed into the water. He spotted reptilian eyes, the sleek form of a night-hunting cayman-large and hungry, judging from the ripples that arrowed through the water toward him. Snake quickly slogged through the mud, climbing the bank and rushing into the underbrush to get safely away from the creature. He didn't waste time wondering what a creature like that was even doing in the Russian wild.

He continued on, making as little sound as possible; when he reached the gorge, he hesitated in uneasy confusion when he saw no sentries posted at the bridge, as there had been before. He moved ahead in eerie silence, mindful of what had taken place on the bridge the previous week. He stopped halfway across as a breeze picked up like an invisible hand brushing him, and he looked down at the rushing water. He remembered with a sudden sorrow the pile of bones he'd seen on the river's shore.

He crossed the bridge and looked about anxiously. Just through the trees would be the Rassvet ruins, where all of this had started. He headed into the forest. The knife in his hand probed forward, drawing him like a compass needle.

When the ruins broke into view, he scanned the area. Once again, the crumbling structures were deserted, the soldiers who patrolled them now gone. He looked toward the high levels of the ruins, expecting to spot a sniper or two up there . . . but the place stood abandoned.

He keyed the codec. "Major, I've reached the factory," he whispered.

"Good. Now you can meet up with ADAM."

"Where is he?"

A pause. "We weren't given an exact location . . ."

"How about a time?"

"Nothing was specified."

Snake was losing patience. "A physical description?"

"Nothing."

"Well how in the hell am I supposed to find him?"

"You won't need to. _He'll_ find you."

Snake didn't like the sound of that. He rogered out and crept closer to the nearest structure, mindful that someone could still be watching, even if he couldn't see them. He passed through the cold ruins, scanning every shadow, every alcove, every nook and cranny . . .

An engine suddenly roared to life and a blinding light exploded into his eyes, a brilliant white glare that drowned out the darkness. Snake jerked backward in shock, then realized the brightness was the headlamp of a motorcycle. It was parked somewhere up ahead, and as Snake raised his hand to smother the glare, he heard a woman's voice.

"Sorry I'm late."

The words were English, and Snake thought he detected a hint of an accent-Midwest, maybe. He could barely tell over the sputter of the motor. "Cut the engine," he growled. "They'll hear us."

"Are you the agent they sent?" the voice asked.

Snake frowned, peering through his fingers and trying to make out the figure astride the bike. "Are you ADAM?" he asked. "I thought you were supposed to be a man."

"ADAM couldn't make it," the voice replied.

Snake felt mistrust course over his body like gooseflesh. "All right," he said. "So say the password. Who are the Patriots?"

The woman didn't answer.

Snake lowered his voice to an angry growl. "Who are the Patriots?"

The woman still said nothing. Snake felt his muscles coiling as he prepared to spring forward. His fingers tightened on the knife's handle.

"_Answer me!_"

Then something moved to his left, and Snake barely had time to turn before the shadowy silhouettes materialized around him. Three of them. In the harsh light of the motorcycle's headlamp he could barely discern their features, but he did see without a doubt that they carried guns.

"Down on the ground!" one of them yelled.

_Trapped,_ his mind rang out. _Goddamn it, walked right into it-_

The armed trio were within fifteen feet, now closing toward them.

"Get down!" the woman warned.

Snake didn't hesitate. He dropped to the ground, landing on his bad shoulder and crying out in pain as the three soldiers raised their rifles. _This was going to get ugly._

Suddenly, the air erupted with gunfire. The woman fired, the crook of her arm absorbing the recoil as she swept her gun in a horizontal arc. The three soldiers didn't even have the chance to shoot back; a volley of lead rocked their bodies, collapsing them to the ground in bloody heaps.

The blinding light suddenly died as the woman killed the bike's engine, plunging the area into darkness. Snake looked up, his eyes adjusting as the woman dismounted and walked toward him. No, not walked-_sauntered. _She sauntered toward the man, the weapon she'd used to dispatch the Spetsnaz soldiers still smoking in her hand. She had him dead to rights, dead to-

"There," she said, "is your answer."

She lowered the gun and, with her other hand, she slowly removed her helmet and set it next to the bike. When she rose again, Snake could see her clearly in the moonlight. She wore a beige-colored flight suit, and as she approached Snake he realized that she had unzipped the front of it down to her sternum, exposing the swells of her breasts. Despite the fact that she'd just executed three men in front of him, he felt a fierce fire rise within him briefly.

She was young, late twenties maybe. She had long blonde hair, not icy like The Boss's but rather a warm, almost sun-like shade. Soft features, defined eyebrows, rosy cheeks that seemed to radiate glamour despite the darkness.

The woman smiled, a satisfied smile that reminded Snake of a cat's after it's caught the mouse.

"The name's EVA."


	11. No Rest for the Weary

**Rassvet**

**Mission Time: Day 1**

**0119 Hours**

EVA stashed the bike behind some nearby hedges—it was an old German model, outfitted with a sidecar, although EVA said that it was actually a Soviet-manufactured replica—and after making certain there weren't any more Spetsnaz lurking about, they sought refuge in the small room in the abandoned factory where Dr. Sokolov had been held captive. Snake sat on the narrow bunk heavily while EVA leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her ample chest. Snake removed the cigar from his pocket, fished for his lighter and lit it, letting it smolder for a few seconds while he thought.

"This wasn't part of the plan," he said. "What happened to ADAM?"

"What's _your_ code-name?"

Snake blinked, unsure of what to say. He puffed on the cigar. "It's Snake."

"Snake, huh?" Her eyes flashed with warmth. "Well, _I'm _EVA . . . are you here to tempt me?"

She sat down next to him. Snake could feel her gaze on him, smoldering. He felt a quick, embarrassing heat rising on his face, and he turned away. "What happened to ADAM?" he repeated.

EVA shrugged, wearing an enigmatic expression. "Colonel Volgin is a very suspicious man. He decided ADAM wasn't the right person for the job."

"And you were?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

EVA's lips quirked in a secret smile. "Because _I_ can do things he can't," she said.

Snake relaxed slightly. "I heard you used to be a codebreaker for the NSA," he said.

She nodded. "I was. Four years ago, I defected to the Soviet Union with Adam."

Snake was eyeing the weapon holstered to the woman's left thigh. He recognized it, even though he'd never seen too many. "Mauser Military," he mused. "The 'Broomhandle.'"

EVA tapped the holster, which was really the weapon's folded stock. "It packs quite a punch. Nice to have when you're on a bike."

Snake nodded. "You held it sideways, used the muzzle jump to create a horizontal sweep. That was impressive."

EVA shot him a wolfish smile. "Bet you've never seen that technique in the West."

"It's imitation, isn't it?"

EVA arched an eyebrow. "Yeah. It's a Chinese Type 17 pistol. Only eight thousand of them were manufactured, and most of them were melted down after the Chinese Civil War ended." She chuckled. "But don't you worry. The one I've got for you"—she reached in her jacket, and as Snake tensed she withdrew a pistol—"is American-made."

She held the gun out by the barrel, and Snake took it gently. It was a .45 pistol, but unlike the one he'd been given before The Boss had dismantled it, this one was _quality_. He tossed the cigar stub to the floor and ground it under his boot. "Incredible," he muttered under his breath.

"Do you like it?" EVA asked with a grin.

Snake rose slowly, turning the pistol over in his hands. The feeding ramp was polished to a mirror sheen. The slide had been reinforced, and the interlock with the frame was tightened for added precision. The sight system was original, too. The thumb safety was extended to make it easier on the finger. A long-type trigger with non-slip grooves. A ring hammer. The base of the trigger guard had been filed down for a higher grip. And not only that—

EVA giggled behind him, and Snake realized he'd been admiring the weapon aloud. "I wonder if you talk about girls the same way you do guns," she said.

"Nearly every part of this gun has been expertly crafted and customized," Snake said. "Where'd you get something like this?

"I grabbed it from a Western munitions armory." She cocked a wry smile. "It probably belonged to one of your officers. And there are more where that came from." She gestured to the pile of clothes next to Snake on the bed. "Better take this, too."

Snake glanced down at them. At first, he'd supposed they had belonged to Sokolov, but he noticed they were freshly laundered. A white lab coat and slacks. Snake frowned. "What's this?"

"A disguise," she explained, "to make you look like a scientist."

"A disguise?"

"Of course. You're here to rescue Sokolov, right?"

"So Sokolov's still safe, then."

EVA nodded. "Yes. He's being forced to continue his work on the Shagohod."

"Where?"

"At the lab." She stepped back, suddenly businesslike, although her smile still held that attraction, and her eyes that same seductive glow. "They've got a whole army of scientists there, developing new weapons. Security is tight, but if you disguise yourself as a scientist you might be able to sneak in."

Snake stared at her. "_Can_ we get Sokolov out of there?"

EVA paused just for a moment, a pause too short for a single breath. "We'll see, won't we?"

Snake reached down into his boot and drew his knife. Slowly, he began whittling the grip of the pistol. "Tell me how to get to the lab," he said.

"The safest way in is from the rear," EVA explained. "First, you'll have to head north through the jungle. You'll come to a heliport used for shipping materials. Pass the heliport and continue north, and there will be a large crevice. Descend into that area and you'll reach a cave. Move through the cave and you will arrive at a mangrove swamp. After the swamp, there'll be a warehouse. Make your way through the warehouse and you'll come out just south of the lab."

Snake nodded, memorizing every detail, every instruction. "Got it."

EVA's brow furrowed as she noticed what Snake was doing. "And just what are you doing there?"

Snake stopped whittling and placed the knife's handle against the .45's grip, the blade pointing downward. "In close-range combat," he said, "a knife can sometimes be more useful than a gun. By doing this, I'll be able to hold a knife at the same time and still keep the gun steady. That way, I can instantly switch between a gun battle and a knife fight."

EVA put her hands on her hips, puzzled.

Snake nodded. "Right. Let's get going, then."

He turned to leave, but EVA placed a hand on his shoulder. Snake winced at the pain, turning around. "What now?"

EVA shook her head. "You must be tired," she said. "Why don't you take a little rest?"

Snake shook his head. "I'll be fine," he grunted.

EVA stared at him. Snake turned to walk away but staggered, nearly collapsing to the floor. EVA grabbed his arm, and led him back to the cot. "You'll never make it in your condition," she admonished. "It's a jungle out there. There's still an hour before dawn. It's dangerous to be out in the jungle at night without a guide."

"What about you?"

EVA sighed. "I have to get back. I can't be gone for too long. They'll start to suspect something." She saw the look on his face and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll keep you updated over the radio."

Snake sank to the cot. "That's it?"

"My orders are to provide you with information. Nothing more." She crossed her arms over her ample chest. "You look disappointed."

Snake wasn't sure what to say.

With a smile, she said, "All right, then. I'll do something special for you. I'll stand watch until dawn. Now be a good boy and lie down." She saw a troubled shadow cross his face. "What's the matter?"

Snake shook his head. "I don't know you well enough to trust you."

"How well do you have to know me to trust me?"

"I don't know if I can trust anybody," he replied.

When the codec sounded off in his ear, he tensed. When he realized what it was he still didn't relax. After a moment, EVA looked at him. "Gonna get that?"

_How could she hear it?_ Snake wondered but didn't ask. He grumbled and keyed up the codec. "Yeah?"

"She's right, Snake." It was Para-Medic. She'd been listening in. _Damned if they don't cover all their bases. _"You should get some sleep. Although in your condition, you really ought to be back in the ICU. Do yourself a favor and take a nap. Doctor's orders, okay?"

Snake sighed. He knew she was right—the both of them. "Yeah. Okay."

He stretched out on the cot, threw a glance towards EVA. The woman languidly leaned against the wall, smiling at him. "I'll keep watch," she assured him.

Snake opened his mouth to say something, but he thought better of it. He lay back, closed his eyes, and slept.

* * *

The noise splintered his sleep like a bullet, and Snake sat bolt upright, damp with sweat from a nightmare he couldn't remember. Daylight filtered through the mildew-streaked window, but his awareness was cold and blinking.

"You've been out for an hour," EVA said. She was busily working over something in her knapsack. She tipped a suggestive wink at him. "If you want, you—"

Snake silenced her with a look. The noise that had woken him had come from outside. Someone was out there. He rose from the cot, his hand reaching for the .45.

EVA's voice dropped low. "What's the matter?" she whispered.

Snake peered through the window. Through the cloudy glass, he could see several shapes advancing on the factory's ruins. "We're surrounded," he murmured, his grip tightening on the Colt. "I see four of them at least."

EVA craned her neck and her breath caught in her throat. "It's the Ocelot unit," she hissed. She snatched her knapsack and slung it over one shoulder. "Let's get out of here. Hurry!"

Snake bent down and gathered his own rucksack as EVA grabbed one end of the iron-framed cot. "Here," she whispered. "Give me a hand."

Snake grabbed the other end of the bed, and together they lifted it off the floor, revealing a two-foot square trapdoor. She dug her fingers in the groove and pried it up, exposing a crawlspace below.

"We can get out this way," she said.

Snake scanned the darkness. He saw something scamper across the square of light on the soil below. A rat, probably. He was about to duck down into the crawlspace when EVA gasped. He looked, and saw she was staring out the window.

"Dammit," she muttered. "It's him."

Snake followed her gaze. He saw a familiar figure stalking towards the factory. The young commander of the unit, the one who styled himself Ocelot.

"I'll get past them on my bike," EVA said. She turned away and dropped down into the crawlspace. She turned and looked up at him. "I'll call you later."

Snake nodded. "I'll keep them busy."

EVA smiled, then leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Snake recoiled, shocked, but EVA only winked at him. "Don't go dying on me now."

She crouched low and disappeared into the darkness. Snake sealed the trapdoor shut and then turned, dropped to one knee and brought the .45 to bear on the battered door. He could already hear heavy, hurried footsteps outside, voices in low Russian.

An idea flashed in his mind, and Snake hurriedly unslung his rucksack and reached in. He pulled out a fat black cylinder with a steel pin: a flashbang grenade. He thumbed back the hammer on the .45 in one hand, pulled the pin with the grenade on the other as he heard the voices stop right outside the door.

The door crashed open. Two Spetsnaz burst in, carrying Scorpion submachine guns. Snake tossed the grenade and lunged backwards, pulling the iron-framed bed over him to shield himself from the explosion, clapping his hands over his ears. The soldiers screamed and the grenade went off a second later in a terrific, deafening blast. Snake smelled the cordite and phosphorus that singed the air as he leapt to his feet, opening fire. The two Spetsnaz soldiers dropped dead.

Snake threw a glance at the window. The other Spetsnaz soldiers were hustling towards the sound of the explosion, which still echoed around the room in a high, keening ring. A thick haze swirled about, courtesy of the aluminum powder the grenade had loosed. He charged forward, bracing his back against the door. He drew his knife as a third soldier warily stepped into the room. He seized the man and with a smooth, quick motion he drew the knife's edge from one side of the soldier's throat to the other, simultaneously pressing a hand over his mouth to stifle any scream. The Soviet squirmed, his eyes wide, but Snake held firm, while his neck gushed red.

Snake dropped the body to the floor and chanced a glance out the door as the haze started to disperse. His aim pinned a soldier creeping towards the room, his gun drawn. He jerked back as the soldier sprayed fire, narrowly avoiding getting riddled. He threw himself back against the wall as more gunfire rang out.

_Shit._

He scooted back further, hearing his boots crunch on broken glass from the window, which had been shattered by the grenade blast. His searching fingers found one of the Scorpions lying on the floor. He picked it up, sprayed a barrage at the doorway, heard a high-pitched yelp of pain. He waited for any return fire, but there was none.

He tossed the Scorpion aside—it wasn't as reliable as the Colt, and in any case there were more where that came from—and scrambled to his feet. He smelled the tang of cordite and blood.

"Snake!" Para-Medic's voice rang in his ear. "What's going on?"

"Ran into a little trouble," he grunted. "Nothing I can't—"

A bullet struck the wall near his head, and Snake let out a hiss of surprise. He'd forgotten about the Ocelot commander.

Another shot slammed into the overturned bedframe.

He had no choice. Snake took a deep breath, lowered his head and ran for the broken window. Two shots sounded, bullets plowing gouges along the walls, ricocheting past Snake's head. He vaulted forward, propelling himself through the shattered window. He landed heavily in the grass outside, and drew himself to his feet without an outcry. His eyes scanned the area, looking for any sign—

He heard two shots ring out behind him, and Snake swiveled, raising the handgun and angling it upward. And there he stood, on the ruined roof of the factory above him: the Ocelot major, a revolver in one hand . . . and his other held a knife to EVA's throat.

Snake pointed the .45 directly at Ocelot's head, but Ocelot instinctively pulled the woman closer with his knife arm, using her as a shield. She was wearing her helmet, obscuring her features.

"I've been waiting for this moment," Ocelot said.

Snake tensed, not wanting to provoke Ocelot, his eyes locked on the revolver in the man's hand. He squared his shoulders in the familiar position.

Ocelot nodded approvingly. "That's it!" he crowed. "_That's _the stance!"

EVA suddenly tried to wrench herself free, but Ocelot's grip tightened. "I don't think so," he grunted, pulling her close . . . and froze when he felt the swell of her breasts against him. "What the hell? A _female_ spy?" He sniffed the air and his nose wrinkled. "This bitch is wearing perfume!"

Snake took a step forward, and Ocelot jabbed the revolver at him.

"Stay right where you are!" he growled. "I've had enough of your judo."

Snake cocked his chin at the gun in the man's hand. "I see you've got yourself a revolver now," he observed. "Single Action Army, right?"

"That's right," Ocelot said stonily. "There will be no accidents this time."

"You call that an accident?" Snake asked. He felt a sneer curl his lip. "Well, it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been showing off."

Ocelot's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"It's a nice gun," Snake said. "I'll give you that. But the engraving gives you no tactical advantage whatsoever. Unless," he added, "you were planning to auction it off as a collector's item."

Ocelot's face seemed to ripple with rage.

"And you're forgetting one more basic thing," Snake said.

"What's that?"

Snake cocked an eyebrow. "You don't have what it takes to kill me."

Fury flared in Ocelot's eyes. "We'll see!"

He squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

Snake watched the rage leak from his face, which now filled with confusion as he stared numbly at the pistol in his hand.

"What the f—"

Suddenly, EVA's arm pistoned backward, the elbow catching Ocelot full in the face. He gasped and staggered back, and she suddenly kicked out in a brutal, vicious arc, her bootheel connecting with Ocelot's neck. He grabbed his throat, the revolver spilling from his hands and landing in the dust at Snake's feet. EVA kicked again, knocking the major from the roof. He tumbled to the ground, landing in a heap on the ground.

He lay on his back, gray eyes staring at the sky. Snake kicked the revolver, watched it spin in the dirt towards Ocelot. The major lifted his head dazedly.

"Six shots."

Ocelot picked himself from the floor, wiping a thin trail of blood from his chin. "What?"

"That thing only carries six shots," Snake told him. "The Makarov—what you were using earlier—carries eight. You have to get a feel for how many you have left."

Ocelot picked the revolver up from the dirt, his eyes never leaving the American.

"That's a high-class weapon," Snake said. "It's not meant for shooting people."

Ocelot's teeth clenched in anger. A motor chugged to life, and he threw a seething glance at its source. EVA was now astride her motorcycle, her "Broomhandle" in one hand. Ocelot holstered the revolver.

"This isn't over yet," he breathed. "Not by a long shot."

He turned and sprinted towards the jungle path the Ocelot soldiers had taken. Snake watched him go, then saw EVA raise her pistol, preparing to shoot the youth in his back . . .

"Don't!"

EVA turned toward him, lowering her pistol and raising her helmet's visor at the same time. "Why?"

Snake nodded towards the receding figure as he disappeared into the jungle. "He's still young," he remarked.

EVA snorted. "You'll regret stopping me," she said, holstering her own pistol. She then swore loudly. "I've got to get back before he does."

She gunned the motorcycle and it ripped forward, tearing off into the jungle. Snake watched her go, wondering how wild this mission was _really_ going to get if he had allies like EVA in his corner.


	12. Slogging Through the Swamp

**Rassvet**

**Mission Time: Day 2**

**0640 Hours**

* * *

"Snake!"

The voice Snake snapped out of his reverie and he hunkered down. "Major?"

He heard Major Zero breathe a sigh of relief. "What the hell is going on over there?"

"We ran into a little trouble with the Ocelots," he said. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

"I see." Zero sounded a little wary. "In any case, you must proceed with the rescue of Sokolov. According to EVA, you should make your way to the crevasse in the north and-"

"Can we trust her?"

There was a pause. "What's that?"

"EVA is with the KGB, isn't she?" Snake reasoned. "Can I really believe what she says? How do I know she won't double-cross me?"

"There are no guarantees in espionage," Zero replied. "Only calculated guesses. You know that, Snake. At this point in time, the KGB stands nothing to gain by stabbing us in the back."

Snake threw a glance at the grooved trenches EVA's motorcycle had made in the dirt. "So you're saying I can trust her?"

"What I'm saying," Zero said slowly, "is the chance that she'll betray you is low."

Snake grunted. He'd thought the chances The Boss would betray her country, betray him, rested comfortably at nil until a week ago.

"Of course," Zero went on, "we checked the route she gave you against our data. It looked like a pretty solid infiltration route. It makes good use of weak spots in the enemy's defense. You shouldn't have any problems. Follow the route EVA showed you and proceed with the mission."

"Roger."

"But before you do," Zero added, "perhaps it's time you get acquainted with the newest person in your support unit."

Snake's brow furrowed as the codec squelched and a new voice sounded.

"Yo!" It was a young black man's voice, soft, with a measured lilt of a Southern twang buried there. "You're Snake, aren't you?"

"And you're Sigint?"

"None other."

"I heard you're an expert on weapons, equipment, and cutting-edge technology."

"Wrong."

Snake frowned. Had Zero misinformed him?

Then he heard Sigint chuckle. "I am _the_ expert on weapons, equipment, and cutting-edge technology."

Snake sighed._ My support unit's a bunch of comedians._

"I'm the guy who designed all of your equipment," Sigint went on. "You got a question about weaponry or technology in the field, you give me a holler."

"Roger that, Sigint." He paused. "Sigint... what's that mean, anyway?"

"It's short for 'Signal Intelligence,'" Sigint said. "You know, the part of intelligence that deals with electronic information. Things like intercepting and analyzing electronic communications, determining enemy force strength and positioning from radar emissions and radio chatter . . . you get the idea."

Snake did.

"Codebreaking is considered part of our auspices as well," Sigint went on. "Forty years from now, we'll be in the age of electronic warfare." He sighed wistfully. "It won't be long before information replaces firepower as the most valuable commodity on the battlefield."

Snake arched an eyebrow. "So you're saying they won't need guys like me anymore?"

"Sorry to break it to you, but that's not gonna happen. No matter how advanced our technology gets, there's still no substitute for human beings."

_That's a ringing endorsement for job security._

"Anyway," Sigint went on, "the major is a man of foresight. He knew the electronic age was coming, and so he called out to me."

"And you responded?"

"Well, I didn't have anything else to do."

"You couldn't find a job?"

"Nope." Now Sigint's chipper tone sounded bitter. "Nope. None of the places where they do this kind of high-tech research would even let me in the door."

"Why not?" Snake was confused. If this guy was supposedly the best, why would they turn away someone of his talent?

Now Sigint's voice sounded indignant. "Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I'm black."

_Nice one_. "Sorry."

Then Sigint sighed. "The major, though, he doesn't care about what color you are. I've never met anyone like him before. He's . . . different, you know?"

Snake couldn't help but smile. "Oh, yeah. I know."

"I don't think racism's going to go away, even in the twenty-first century. But I want to work with computers and use them to bring people closer together. In the digital world, it doesn't matter whether you're black or white, American or Russian, or whatever. Everybody's going to be the same. That's what I think."

_That's a helluva dream_, Snake thought, but he had his doubts.

"If you two are quite finished," Major Zero's voice broke in, "can we allow for Snake to carry on his mission?"

"Ah, yes, Major," Sigint said. "In any case, Snake, if you need anything, I'll be here."

"Thanks, Sigint."

"EVA said the crevasse was to the north," Zero said. "So head that way."

Snake nodded and rose to his feet. The jungle around him seemed to boil with verdant life, an immense wall that seemed preparing to crash down on top of him. If he was going to be journeying into that unknown, he decided, it would be best if he made sure he was as fully stocked as possible.

He went back into the factory, found the bodies of the Spetsnaz troops he'd gunned down. He checked each corpse carefully, taking what equipment he could salvage. He hooked a pair of pineapple grenades to his belt, slung a Scorpion submachine gun over one shoulder and stuffed a pair of extra clips into his belt. He doubted he'd need this amount of firepower, but The Boss had always told him that if he didn't take what he needed, the enemy would.

The Boss. He doubted he could scrounge up the firepower needed to take her down.

"Snake?"

It was Para-Medic. Snake started back out of the factory. "Yeah?"

"Whatever happens to you, make sure you leave a descendant, okay?"

Snake couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Are you saying you want to have my baby?"

"No," Para-Medic said, though she sounded amused. "I'm saying that in the twenty-first century, the genes of soldiers like you are going to be in high demand."

"Genes?"

"Indeed. Remember when Watson and Crick discovered the double helix structure of DNA back in 1953?"

Snake stepped into the sunlight, held his .45 at the ready. "No."

"You know, they won the Nobel Prize in Medicine for it the year before last?" Para-Medic sighed. "Of course, you have to feel sorry for Pauling and Franklin. They were researching the exact same thing."

_What the hell is she talking about now?_ "I don't follow."

"Inside every living creature are little blueprints called genes," Para-Medic explained brightly. "Through the union of the sperm and egg cells, these blueprints are transformed and inherited by the next generation. That's why parents and children resemble each other. The concept of genes was first proposed over a hundred years ago by Mendel..."

Snake listened to Para-Medic prattle on about things like chromosomes and DNA and things called polypeptides, then broke in, "This is all very fascinating, Para-Medic, but what exactly does it have to do with me?"

Para-Medic sighed. "The inherent characteristics of any given individual are determined by his or her genes. By duplicating a set of superior genes, a separate body with the same set of characteristics-what we call a clone-can be created."

Snake marked north, started towards the jungle. "But genes don't control a person's fate," he said.

"That's true. But having an offspring that's genetically identical to the parent is more efficient, right? You can expect better results that way."

"More efficient?" Snake was aghast. "You can't mass-produce human beings!"

"Maybe," Para-Medic said. "But now that we know the true nature of genes, human cloning is that much closer to reality. Nuclear transplanting is already theoretically possible. So one day..."

"What, my genes are going to be a valuable commodity?"

"Exactly."

Snake scoffed. "They'd never let that happen."

"Just think, Snake: even if your body dies, you survive and go on to bigger and better accomplishments. If you think about it, it's kind of an honor."

"Does that kind of technology seriously appeal to you?"

"Well, I _am_ a doctor." She noted his silence, then said, "I can't condone it on moral grounds, but I'm fascinated by the possibilities. Especially when I see such an excellent specimen as yourself."

The compliment didn't ease Snake's mind on the subject.

"Don't be so glum," Para-Medic said. "It's not like it's going to happen anytime soon. We'll just have to wait and see." She paused, then said, "It's funny, isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"The temptation EVA was talking about," Para-Medic said. "Remember the story of Eve? How she was seduced by the snake into tasting the fruit of knowledge."

Snake couldn't help but smile. "Come to think of it, I _did _break a rib in the Virtuous Mission. Maybe that's where EVA came from."

"But Eve's the one who tempted Adam into eating the forbidden fruit," Para-Medic reminded him. "You may be working together, but remember: she's still a KGB operative. Don't let your guard down."

"I don't intend to." Snake secured his grip on the .45 and forged ahead into the jungle.

* * *

Before long, Snake was hot and sweaty and miserable, but he trudged along without complaint, stopping only when he heard any sort of sound that didn't sound natural. He pushed north, hoping that he hadn't bypassed the crevasse EVA had been talking about.

He couldn't get her out of his head. Her calm yet brash confidence seemed to blaze high, something he'd never seen in a woman before. She wasn't as eager as Para-Medic, but she lacked the glacial gravitas of The Boss. And yet, there was an allure to her, something he hadn't been prepared to encounter on the mission. That was the second time he'd been shocked by a woman, and he hoped it wouldn't end as badly as it had the first time.

He noticed that the ground underfoot was starting to get muddy, his boots sinking into the moist earth. The trees thinned out to a vast, mirror-smooth swamp of murky green water.

Snake tossed a pebble into the water, watching the ripples spread out like shock waves.

Shit, he thought, looking around. He didn't see a footbridge in sight. Nor did he see any way to skirt the marsh, not unless he wanted to wander way off course.

The Boss had taught him that when it came between personal comfort and the mission, the mission was always priority. And even though The Boss was now his enemy, her words were still gospel.

Guess I'm going for a dip, he thought sourly.

He tucked his handgun in his shirt to keep it dry, raised the Scorpion over his head, and stepped forward. He sank up to his calves in the slurry. He slogged forward, his boots making sucking sounds as he pulled them out of the mud. Moving only a few meters sapped his energy.

When he was waist-deep in the marsh, he saw the water ripple to his left. He remembered, quite vividly, the crocodile he'd seen the previous night. He lowered the Scorpion and fired a burst at the ripples . . . and the shredded carcass of a fish rose in a pink bloom.

_You're getting jumpy._

He cursed himself and continued forward. If he'd panicked like that in front of The Boss, she would've given him a swift kick to the temple for his trouble.

It took him almost an hour to wade through the marsh. There were times where the muck felt like it was going to suck him down and swallow him whole, and there was one blood-freezing moment where he'd had to snag on a nearby vine to keep from being dragged under. If he managed to make it out of this, he'd be lucky if he didn't pass out from exhaustion before he made it to the crevasse.

When he finally made it to the other end of the marsh, he looked down at his fatigues. They were soaked, slick with mud . . . and something else. On his bare skin, he saw four or five dark blotches that he realized were leeches. He cursed again, reached for his knife . . . and then stopped. It wasn't going to do to cut them away, or even pluck them away. What was it the boys had said in Korea, whenever they'd found the little bastards clinging to their legs after they went wading through swamps? You had to burn the suckers off.

He reached in his shirt pocket, pulled a cigar out and clamped it between his teeth. He'd smuggled a half-dozen of them in this time, without the major's knowledge. They didn't do a damn bit of good on a sneaking mission, but as Zero had pointed out, this wasn't a sneaking mission anymore.

He found his Zippo lighter and sparked it, touching the flame to his cigar. He took a long, nerve-calming drag, then took the cigar out and looked at the burning ember carefully. He then tapped the fiery eye gently against one of the leeches. There was a hiss, a sizzle, and the fat leech dropped from his arm, leaving a bloody streak on his arm. He did this again and again until he was sure they were all gone.

He took another puff on the cigar, then looked at it sadly. There was no time to enjoy it. Shame. He flicked it away, watched it snuff itself out in the swamp. Let the leeches enjoy it.

He drew his handgun from his shirt, made sure no water had gotten into it, and then continued on.

* * *

After another hour of trying to slip like a thief through the jungle, Snake arrived at an obstacle he hadn't foreseen. It was an obstacle that, had he not been looking down at precisely the right moment, would have ended his mission as efficiently as any nuclear blast.

Parting the wide, slick leaves of a tree, Snake glanced down . . . and froze as if a magnetic field had locked him in place. There was something strung on the ground, about eight inches off the ground. A tripwire. Snake's eyes followed the almost invisible cord to the base of the nearby tree. There, he saw an amorphous-looking contraption plastered to the base of the trunk. It was a dull green color, and as Snake's eyes raked over the wire that was tautly attached to the device's gently curved casing. He recognized it immediately. He tapped the codec.

"Sigint," he whispered. "They've wired the place with claymores."

"Claymores?" The young engineer's voice sounded maddeningly cheerful despite the situation. "You sure?"

Snake was positive, and why not? In Korea, he'd seen soldiers on both sides torn apart by them. The claymores were loaded with hundreds of tiny ball-bearings that would explode outward in all directions when the mine went off. Anyone in the blast radius would be ripped to ribbons. "Definitely looks American," he observed. "How did they get a hold of them?"

"Any number of reasons," Sigint said promptly. "Could be leftovers from the Korean War, or they outright stole them from the West. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if that's a perfect duplicate. Claymores aren't that complicated. The Soviets must be learning a lot from them. It might not be long before we start seeing more 'Claymorasky' mines."

He chuckled at his little joke. Snake fumed sourly. He carefully crept past the claymore, his gaze fixed on every patch of ground, every strip of bark, every splash of foliage.

They just can't cut me a break, he thought.

He moved for what seemed like hours through the brush, taking great pains not to put his foot down unless he knew it wasn't going to be triggering any mines or traps. At one particularly agonizing part in his pathway, he spent a good thirty minutes trying to slip between two criss-crossed wires. And—

Snake froze in place as he heard a hum and a chirp—had he triggered one of the mines? He didn't move, didn't breathe until he realized the chirp was coming from his codec. He cursed himself. He was letting his nerves get the better of him.

The chirp came again, and a hushed voice followed: "Snake, are you there?"

Snake felt his breath catch in his throat—a feeling he was quite unused to. "EVA?"

"Did you miss me?" She sounded amused.

"Did you make it without any trouble."

"No one saw me," she assured him.

"So you're back with Volgin?"

A brief pause. "In a matter of speaking."

"What about The Boss?" Snake pressed.

"Yeah, she's here, too."

Snake suspected as much, and he felt a pang of regret and fear at EVA's response. If the KGB spy was found out . . .

"Better be careful," he warned her.

"Thanks, I will." EVA paused again. "The Boss and I get along pretty well, though."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know. I guess we traitors have a lot in common."

Snake reached forward and brushed away palm fronds, peering ahead in the dense jungle. "Why would anyone want to defect?" he muttered aloud. "Betraying your country like that . . ." He suppressed a shudder, choked it down. "I just don't get it."

"Are you talking about The Boss?" EVA asked softly.

"Why'd you do it?" Snake crept forward, imagining EVA standing before him. Those soft features, that knowing smile. That enigmatic and maddening smile. "Weren't you born and raised in America?"

"Yes. In a small rural town." Now EVA's voice seemed to soften, taking on a ruminating tone. "I never even knew there were other countries, other cultures, other ways of thinking. Until I went to work for the NSA and saw . . ." She trailed off, then sighed. "One day, I'd found I'd lost faith in the things I'd been taking for granted."

"What did you see?"

"What?"

"What was it that made you want to change sides?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Snake marked a claymore mine wreathed in moss on the forest floor. He sidestepped it nimbly. "Try me."

"I saw the universe."

Snake's brow furrowed. "The universe?"

"Not the actual universe," she said in a whisper. "The universe as the intelligence community sees it. I realized that the gravity in this universe is holding me back. That's all. People and their countries are both changed by the environment." She paused, then added, "And by the times."

Snake remembered what The Boss had told him, first during the Virtuous Mission and then the previous night in the jungle. "That sounds like what The Boss was saying."

"There's a world of difference between this country and America," EVA explained. "But it's only a difference of position. A difference of perspective. But coming here made me realize something."

"What?"

"Half of what I'd been told was a complete and utter lie," she said. "And the other half was a conveniently constructed lie."

Snake stepped carefully over another tripwire. "Where's the truth, then?"

"It's hidden in the lies."

"Are you lying, too?"

"Who knows?" EVA's response sounded both flippant and mournful. "I've been trained to make even the most severe falsehood sound like the God's honest truth. Weren't you?"

"No," Snake grunted. "I believe because I have to. Even if it is a lie. That's part of my mission."

"I'll have to remember that," EVA said. "I've got to get back soon, or Volgin will start to suspect something."

"He's a real piece of work, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it," EVA said. "Have you heard about the massacre that happened during the war in the village of Gnezdovo?"

Snake nodded. "The Katyn Forest Massacre, right?"

"During World War II," EVA explained, "the German army stumbled upon the bodies of four thousand dead Polish outside the forest of Katyn. Germany blamed the Soviet Union, but the Soviets denied it, blaming Germany in return. The truth is that Stalin ordered the NKVD to carry out the killings. And it wasn't just Katyn. In places like the Western Ukraine and Belarus, there must have been at least twenty thousand Poles in the prison camps."

_Enough to make you wonder who your allies really were_, Snake thought. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Volgin was one of the people responsible," EVA replied. "He was one of the vicious leaders behind it."

"Volgin?"

"He blamed it on a prisoner revolt to allay any fears, and requested that they be put to death." She hesitated, then added, "I've heard that Volgin even removed the blindfolds from each prisoner before he beat them to death."

Snake shuddered. "I knew he wasn't all there in the head, but this . . ."

"Not someone you could be friends with, huh?"

_That's one hell of an understatement_. Snake moved to switch off the codec, when a question that had been nagging him sprang to the forefront of his mind.

"There's something else I wanted to ask you, EVA," Snake said.

"What?"

"About Ocelot."

EVA chuckled. "Yeah, I know. He is pretty infatuated with you, isn't he?"

"That's not what I meant," he grunted. "Aren't the Ocelots supposed to be an elite unit?"

"Yeah."

"So how did he get to be their commander? He can't be any older than eighteen, nineteen at the oldest. And he's already a major?"

"I asked the same question myself," EVA replied. "And I heard the colonel say that he's been given special treatment."

"Special treatment?"

"Yeah. He's the son of some war hero or something."

_War hero, huh? _Even Ike couldn't make his own kid a major during the war. "So who is this hero, anyway?"

"Beats me. The colonel never said." She paused. "There was something odd, though."

"What?"

"He said that his mother was supposedly shot in the gut and that he was born right there, with bullets whizzing all around them."

"A pregnant woman in the middle of a battle?"

"It doesn't surprise me," EVA said. "There were civilians caught in the crossfire in all sorts of skirmishes along the Eastern Front. They say when they stitched her up, the scar was shaped like a snake."

Well, that's battlefield medicine for you. "What about his father? This legendary hero?"

"He didn't say. I don't think Ocelot's ever met his parents."

"Are they dead?"

"Maybe. I don't know. There were a lot of MIAs back then, during the final days of the war. Ocelot probably would've ended up the same way, but he was taken in and raised by GRU and Volgin."

"Because he was special."

"That's my guess. In any case, if you need to give me a call on the radio, my frequency is 142.52." A pause, then: "Be seeing you."

The codec squeaked off. Snake clenched and unclenched his hands as he moved on, wondering if at the end of this mission he would put them around EVA's waist . . . or her throat.


	13. Showdown at Bolshaya Past

**Bolshaya Past**

**Mission Time: Day 2**

**1024 Hours**

* * *

The marshy earth had given way to more rocky terrain as Snake blazed quickly and quietly north. His entire energy had been focused on taking step after step, proceeding deeper into the jungle, making sure that every movement and sound was noted, categorized, filed away . . .

Then he stopped. Something glinted to his right—something metal. Snake couldn't be certain, but he thought it might have been the tin roof of a building.

Sweaty and exhausted, Snake sprang forward with renewed energy, as if he had been jumpstarted. He spread ferns aside and caught his breath as he looked out at a small assortment of sheds and huts. Gray clouds hung in the sky, casting the site in a cool gloom. In the center of the site, he saw a fat-bellied helicopter, its rotors winking in the intermittent sunlight. Snake suspected it was one of the choppers that had ferried the Shagohod the week before.

There were about seven soldiers, all Spetsnaz and all armed, patrolling the area. The whole perimeter was ringed with a fence that Snake judged was electrified. A maze of trenches zigzagged behind them. Snake craned his neck, and saw a machine-gun emplacement set up on the far left, the barrel pointed at the jungle. He realized with a sickening start that he'd been lucky: had he not seen the flash of sunlight on tin, he would've walked right into the gunner's sights.

Snake shrank back, his mind whirling. At first glance, the place looked like some kind of a supply depot. Had EVA known about this place? She'd have had to. Was she luring him into a trap?

Only one way to find out.

Snake keyed the codec. "EVA."

"What is it, Snake?"

"Some sort of facility," Snake murmured, careful now to keep his voice at a hushed whisper. "Looks like a supply depot."

"That would be Bolshaya Past Base."

"Past what?"

"No, Snake. That area is known as _Bolshaya Past._ It's Russian for 'great cavity.' The crevasse is about a mile north of it."

"You didn't think to warn me about it first?"

"I had faith you'd spot it," EVA said smartly.

Snake grumbled. His earlier question seemed to be swinging in favor of throats.

"You should get a move on, Snake," EVA hissed, switching off her signal.

Snake crouched where he was for a moment, thinking. If this were a supply depot, it might prove to be a major hassle down the road. The huts probably had stores of guns, ammunition, and all sorts of supplies. Snake wondered if it would be worth the risk to lob a few grenades and blow them to kingdom come.

He was still weighing his options when the codec sounded in his ear, followed by the major's voice. "Snake, get a move on."

"How'd you know I stopped?"

"We're keeping track of your movements," Para-Medic chimed in. "Through your codec."

"And you need to get moving," Zero said.

With a weary sigh, Snake crept away from the encampment, making sure to keep out of sight of the machine-gun nest.

Snake reached the crevasse of Bolshaya Past just as the sun hit high noon. It was a desolate bare patch in the jungle, all basalt outcroppings and baked hardpan. Only a few stunted trees and hardy lichens splattered the scene around the chasm, which was a good twenty feet or so at its widest point.

But Snake took no notice of it. He was too busy looking at the man standing on the opposite side of the chasm—the slender, pale-skinned major in the red beret.

Ocelot tapped his aquiline nose. "Ah, you're here at last."

Snake moved for his pistol, but the steel-eyed youth thumbed back the hammer of the revolver, training the barrel directly between Snake's eyes. The major grinned lazily, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

"Looks like The Boss's info was right," he mused.

"Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked yet, kid?" Snake grunted.

Ocelot's eyes narrowed. "Twice now you've made me taste bitter defeat."

He opened his mouth and let out a strange yowling sound, something that sounded like a caterwaul. A second later, Snake heard the unmistakable snap of rifles being loaded around him. He flashed a glance and saw the black-garbed commandos had surrounded him, pointing their weapons at him.

_I've got to stop letting them get the drop on me like that._

Their commander cocked a grin. "Holster up," he said.

Snake didn't move.

"Holster up," Ocelot repeated, "or I put a bullet in your eye."

Snake scowled and slid the .45 into its holster, expecting the Russian major to gun him down anyway.

But he didn't. Ocelot slowly held up his gun and pointed the barrel upward, indicating he wasn't going to shoot. "I hate to disappoint the Cobras," he said, "but you're mine now." He glanced at the other soldiers. "All of you! Leave us!"

The Spetsnaz troops exchanged glances, lowered their weapons and stepped back. Snake's brow furrowed. _This guy's really serious about this._

Ocelot twirled the pistol around his finger with the flourish of John Wayne and then thrust the barrel into the holster at its side.

"It's just you and me," he said. "No one to get in our way. Ocelots are proud creatures. They prefer to hunt alone." He tapped the butts of the two revolvers at his side. "Twelve shots. This time, I've got twelve shots."

The two men faced each other, their gun hands preparing for the quick draw. Snake slowly inched to his right, in hopes of throwing Ocelot's aim off at the last second. But Ocelot mirrored the steps.

Over the years of Snake's career, he'd never dueled another man face-to-face like this. He felt a trickle of sweat beneath his bandana. His fingertips trembled, danced over the butt of the .45.

Ocelot's eyes squinted to slits. "Ready . . ."

The wind blew. The tree branches creaked. Snake even saw a _tumbleweed_ bounce dryly behind Ocelot.

Ocelot's eyes glinted.

_"Draw."_

Both men seized their guns.

Both men drew.

Both men opened fire.

Ocelot's first shot ripped the air where Snake's head had been a split-second before. Snake's first three shots beat three loud reports before he hit the ground, and as he rolled he saw dirt kick up near Ocelot's left boot. The Russian jerked backward, firing twice more, and Snake felt a furrow of blood rip open in hot pain as a bullet grazed his left cheek.

He lurched to his feet again, blasting two more shots as he sprinted for the fallen log. Ocelot opened fire, backing up towards a gnarled stump. Snake lunged forward, hitting the hardpan behind the log just as another bullet bounced off the wood with a loud ricochet. Bits of debris showered Snake, but he took no notice of it.

One of the Spetsnaz commandos stepped out of the brush, his rifle raised, preparing to open fire. Ocelot saw him, swung one of his revolvers towards him, and shot. The bullet smashed into the commando's wrist, and he dropped the rifle with a squawk. The other commandos exchanged anxious glances.

_He's serious about this, _Snake thought.

He raised his own pistol over the log and fired. But Ocelot had ducked behind the stump.

"I've never felt so alive!" Ocelot's voice announced. "It's so different from simply changing a clip. To reload in the middle of a battle-it's _exhilarating!_"

Snake heard the rattle of the revolver's cylinder snap shut. He heard Ocelot then spin it.

He reached for his waist, and unclipped the grenade he'd considered using on the supply depot. He clutched the pineapple tightly and pried the pin loose. He counted to three and then rose up and pitched the grenade towards the stump.

As though he'd sensed it, Ocelot whirled from around the stump. He saw the grenade tumbling through the air towards him. His left hand blurred, a gunshot rang out, and the grenade detonated a split-second later, knocking the Russian major to the ground. He lay there, stunned but alive, a shrapnel cut over one eyebrow.

"You filthy cheat . . ."

Snake was ready. He rose to his feet, his pistol pointed at Ocelot. The Russian struggled to his feet, blood trickling down his cheek. His revolvers lay in the dust. He bent for one, but as his fingers closed on the barrel Snake squeezed the trigger.

_CLICK!_

Ocelot cringed, expecting a bullet to tear through his vitals. But the dry click alerted him that Snake's Colt was empty.

"You're a dead man now," he said, slowly raising the revolver and thumbing back the hammer. Then he paused.

Something had lighted on the revolver's sight. It crawled along the barrel, buzzing intermittently.

"Damn," he muttered, coldly furious. "He found us, the son of a bitch . . ."

Snake took no notice of it. Behind him, he heard one of the Ocelot commandos let out a cry. Then another. Then he heard an agonized cacophony of screams. He whirled around, and saw the black-garbed soldiers pitching their weapons away as if they were white-hot, and they began to scream and writhe, clawing at their bodies as though they'd been doused in acid.

_What the hell is going on?_

And then he heard it: a droning sound that cut through the shrieks like a hot knife through butter, a droning sound he recognized at once. Bees.

No, not bees. _Hornets_.

The commando Ocelot had shot had forgotten all about his shattered wrist. He sank to his knees, scrabbling with one hand at his balaclava, ripping it away while howling in pain. When he did, Snake saw a horrific sight he'd never forget till the end of his days: the man's face was swelling, puffing in painful welts. His screams grew weaker, and he fell forward, mercifully facedown.

More of the commandos were doing the same. They were dying, dropping like flies-and then the first stab of pain needled the right side of Snake's throat, just below the hairline. Another sting flared up his right arm above the elbow. Screaming, in a total panic, he staggered back. One of them stung the back of his neck; another stung the small of his back, above the waistband of his trousers.

Ocelot staggered backwards. Already the hornets were starting to descend on him. He snatched up his other revolver and started to twirl them about like twin propellers, knocking dozens of the little bastards out of the air as they dive-bombed him. He looked at his men, the last of whom already letting out their final death rattles, and at the American, who was being consumed by The Pain's pets.

Shame.

Ocelot turned and ran.

Snake threw an arm over his eyes, feeling dozens of red-hot darts of pain all over his body. He had to get out of here, had to get out of here, had to-

_Get moving, asshole._

Only one way to go.

He threw himself forward, blundering through the buzzing swarm . . . and then his boots violently hit open air and suddenly his balance was gone.

"_Oh shit!_" he cried, grabbing for purchase but finding nothing. He fell through darkness, tumbling. His foot struck something, his right leg bent at a painful angle as he fell. He snatched at rock, scratched three fingernails off. He fell through darkness, tumbling. He screamed in pain and surprise and he hit the ground on his shoulder with such a tooth-rattling force, and then he was gone.


End file.
